Hidden Lions
by MercedesCarello
Summary: Rumors have been circulating of a plot to steal Annie Leonhart from her underground prison. Although mystified by why she has been tasked with investigating, Mercedes is even more shocked to discover that the trail leads yet again to her family – a side she doesn't know. (Sequel to The Burning Titan - not required reading in order to enjoy!)
1. Chapter 1: The Blue Glass

**A Note from the Author:** Welcome, everyone, to my latest project! 'Hidden Lions' is set after the events of  The Burning Titan, which isn't exactly required reading in order to enjoy (though it certainly adds an extra dimension). While I can't promise it won't be spoiler-free for those who aren't caught up with the manga, it's not laden with them.

At any rate, enjoy the read, and please let me know what you think as always!

* * *

 **Chapter 1: The Blue Glass**

It was a strangely hot afternoon, to the point that Mercedes would be very surprised if she wasn't drenched in sweat by the time she met Commander Pixis in Utopia. Ever since that night she'd arrived in Utopia after her suicide-run to the Wall, he seemed to delight in taking every opportunity to make her go there and insodoing, make her route as long as possible. The only thing that kept Mercedes from refusing outright was the promise of the slightly cooler climate in that district.

She'd begun keeping her mare, Sabine, in Karanese since it was now the easiest exit through Wall Rose. Not to mention that she found it almost impossible to remain for any period of time in Trost, her old post, and catch even a glimpse of the gates Marco had destroyed – and thus the number of people that had died – in her name. Pixis seemed to be taking advantage of the slight rift this had caused in her squad and she was happy to take on obscure solo assignments here and there though she knew it shouldn't be in her scope of duties. Instead, for the fourth time in the past couple of months, she pulled herself into the already-hot saddle and set out at a slow walk from the entrance of the Garrison compound.

The streets were quiet for the time of day, with what few civilians that were out and about moving languidly and sticking to as much shadow as they could. Mercedes had noticed that in the wake of everything that had happened a few months ago, the people were starting to recognize her. She didn't know how she felt about that. On account of this and the heat, she pulled out a worn scrap of cloth she used as a ribbon and knotted her hair up on the top of her head.

She'd barely made it through Karanese before she was intensely feeling the urge to take off her uniform jacket. The sun was directly overhead and amplified by the cobbles underfoot. Even the birds weren't singing and her throat felt as parched as she imagined theirs to be. She took a side route than ran parallel to the main street – despite the tight squeeze it had more shadows cast by the surrounding taller buildings and by that virtue alone felt a couple of degrees cooler.

Up ahead was an establishment she'd never seen before – a two-story building with a wider ground floor than its second. Several windows ran like a glass ribbon around the ground floor too, their brightness amplified by the white-painted brick walls supporting them. An awning of sorts with sun-bleached thatch separated the two floors and shaded what appeared to be small tables and chairs underneath it. Mercedes peered at the sign that hung on the squared-off corner directly in front of her, trying to pick out the words of its crackled and peeling blue lettering.

"'The Blue Glass'," Mercedes read.

As Sabine brought them closer, she could see that the double-doors were open to the inside and there were several patrons inside, as well as a couple outside under the awning. A waiter came to them carrying a bucket and with a pair of tongs, placed a few pieces of ice into their cobalt-blue glasses with a satisfying _chink_.

"Shit, I could go for some of that ice right now." She watched the patrons' water be poured in after the ice, and the glasses be raised to their lips for grateful sips. Mercedes moistened her own dry ones. "I've got time," she decided.

She tied up Sabine to one of the posts supporting the awning and wandered inside the gentle murmur and jingle of the somewhat-crowded, open-plan room. The walls were painted a pale blue and the floor was a dark wood, and both accentuated the feeling of being a few degrees cooler. It was arranged in a U-shape, with a bar and presumably the kitchen in the center and two closed doors leading out back. Most of the tables had room for four and sat a variety of patrons, all with the same cobalt-blue glasses. She heard several mentions of the heat and presumed this place acted as a popular watering-hole.

"Feel free to sit wherever you like," said a passing waitress. "We'll be with you in a moment."

"Thanks." Mercedes made her way to the left-hand arm of the U, finding a two-chair table near the windows that was vacant. She was careful not to bump anyone with her gear along the way, and averted her eyes from the few curious stares she received.

She gratefully removed her jacket and equally gratefully received the glass of water placed in front of her without her having to ask. Although she glanced over the proffered menu purely out of curiosity, she declined to order anything when the waitress came back except for a pitcher of water. Instead, she relished the feeling of ice on her lips each time she took a sip from the goblet, breathing in the cool area cupped inside as she idly passed her gaze over her surroundings.

Eventually her gaze alighted on the bar serving as buffer between the patrons and the kitchen. Behind it were a middle-aged man and woman, with the woman looking busier and more severe than the man. The man was of average height and build with a kind face, dark salt-and pepper hair and mustache, and seemed to constantly smile while he worked. The woman, meanwhile, was rather tall – maybe as tall as Baena – rather gaunt, and rather stressed-looking, although judging by her thick strawberry-blonde hair kept back by a barrette she wasn't unhealthy. They were presumably the owners of the establishment by the way they moved flawlessly around the numerous obstacles in their path, and Mercedes wondered whose idea this had been.

She poured herself another glassful, enjoying the patter of a few cold stray drops on her hand. But as she raised the glass to her lips and looked the other way, she noticed the woman was looking at her with great scrutiny. Mercedes froze instinctually. The woman began making her way from behind the bar toward her; Mercedes took a sip of her water and slowly put down the glass, pressing her lips together and debating what to do. She decided to remain still, and wait.

Wordlessly, the woman lowered herself into the chair opposite Mercedes and it squeaked in protest even under her slight weight. The unblinking stare set into her severe face held a certain defeat that Mercedes knew only came with the realization of something you didn't like, and she wondered what that something could be. Yet, she also said nothing. After a moment, without looking away the woman took her thick linen apron in her large hands and wiped them, her mouth crinkling into a similar line like a fold in the thin, pale, somewhat wrinkled skin of her face. Mercedes realized the stress she thought she had seen earlier was actually a kind of constant assessment and resulting disapproval – her body language was too poised and confident for someone overwhelmed.

"You're Léon and Amaranta's daughter," the woman finally said.

For a reason she couldn't pinpoint, Mercedes felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. The woman's tone had been neutral but her statement seemed like a threat. She couldn't help but be defensive as she asked in return, "And you?"

The woman dropped her apron to one side of the leg she crossed over the other, and sat back in her chair with a slight haughtiness Mercedes hadn't expected. She lifted her chin and her thin eyebrows rose, too. "I'm your Aunt Jana. Your Uncle Alejandro was my first husband." She didn't seem too delighted by the admission so Mercedes suspected some sense of duty was compelling her, and it was that that meant she didn't make a snide comment.

This aside, Mercedes struggled to recognize her. She knew she'd had a visit at some point when she was young from Aunt Jana and her three children, but the memory was vague to the point of feeling like it was from another life. And now, Jana seemed to expect some recognition – Mercedes had none to give and figured it'd be worse to pretend.

"You only saw me maybe once or twice," Jana said, finally blinking. "Why are you here?" she demanded.

Mercedes was nonplused. She tipped her glass this way and that to accentuate her point. "I stopped by for a drink on my way elsewhere. Is that a problem?" For some reason she wanted to look around for signs of her cousins but sensed it'd be unwise to look away from Jana.

"I wouldn't say your presence is a problem, exactly," Jana folded her hands and put them on her knee. The dull cornflower blue of her skirt brought out the color of the veins lacing around her knuckles, like stray thread over marble. "Your name is, though."

"Excuse me?" Mercedes couldn't help but grin in surprise.

Jana's voice lowered, and there was an exasperated indulgence to it, "I'm sure you know that the Carello name hasn't brought anyone any fortune."

There was a tense pause. "Well, I can't do much about my name," Mercedes quipped lowly.

Jana's eyebrows quirked and she glanced down at Mercedes' hand. "Are you married? That changes a name."

The heat of a flush of indignation flooded Mercedes' body. Not only had she tried not to think about Jean lately – he was away, of course – but the last thing she wanted to do was offer such personal information to a woman who obviously didn't care much for her. Particularly when she wasn't sure herself of the future.

"No, of course you're not," said Jana before the younger woman could conjure a reply. Mercedes also didn't have time to figure out what she felt about that statement; Jana was sighing with a slight roll of her eyes and looking implicitly at a waitress that came up to them, jerking her hand to send her away. After watching the waitress retreat – longer than seemed necessary, as if she wanted to be sure – she looked again at Mercedes and pursed her lips. "Best drink up, then, and be on your way."

"On my way?"

Jana stood and seemed to relish the opportunity to look down her nose at her. "You're military – don't you have duties to attend to?"

"I thought you said it wasn't my presence that was the problem?"

She continued as if Mercedes hadn't spoken, "You may be able to be idle, but I'm not. So if you'll excuse me." Jana smoothed her apron and tucked back into the crowd of tables, snagging a used plate and glass as she went without even a backwards glance.

Mercedes sat stunned and – it was hard to admit – strangely hurt by what had transpired. The flush she'd felt earlier settled in her belly and made her hands shake. She remembered to close her mouth. She looked over her shoulder; Jana retreated back from whence she'd come, this time going to a back door situated near the bar that presumably led to the kitchen, with a swinging door propped open by the waitress she'd shooed earlier, now hovering and looking in Mercedes' direction. They started speaking hurriedly to one another. The waitress, perhaps a little older than Mercedes, fingered reddish-brown hair that'd fallen over her shoulders and was shortly joined from the back room by her twin. Both looked concerned.

Mercedes' brow furrowed. She passed her eyes back and forth between the young women and Jana, trying to make out what they might be saying, but she wasn't as good as Oliver at reading lips. One of the girls took a step toward her but was halted by Jana's long arm bracing itself on the doorframe. In the briefest of moments before Jana rather roughly grabbed the waitress' arm and pushed her into the back room with her twin, Mercedes felt like she'd been slapped – she'd dreamed of them – they were Jana's daughters. They were her cousins.

And then the door swung shut, her view of the twins growing ever narrower as the door's path grew tighter and tighter until it lay still against its frame. She locked gazes with Jana's own stern one, and held it.

 _There's no point, not today,_ Mercedes told herself after a long moment. _Besides, Pixis is waiting._ She downed the rest of the water in her glass, wiped her mouth, and stood. Her eyes left Jana's. A couple of coins were fished out of her pocket and left on the table, and Mercedes left the restaurant – much like her erstwhile aunt, not looking back.

The sticky heat outside embraced her, and it helped thaw the chill of Jana's introduction. Mercedes located Sabine, untied her, and pulled herself into the hot saddle. She hoped there would be enough time in the next day or so to visit her grandmother and see if there were any clues as to Jana's behavior.

" _I'm sure you know that the Carello name hasn't brought anyone any fortune."_

No, no it hadn't, historically. And yes, Jana had remarried. But surely that was no real reason to be as hostile and condescending as she had? There was no personal risk to her from the Carello name anymore.

 _Unless she, like a lot of people, still blame me for the Breach by Fire,_ Mercedes reflected bitterly.


	2. Chapter 2: Sensitivity

**Chapter 2: Sensitivity**

The Utopia Garrison HQ was in far better shape than most buildings Mercedes had seen outside the capitol. Everything from its well-kept stables and simple greenery edging the three-storey building to the immaculately-painted lines on its training yard, through to the spotless halls she walked through. Unlike Karanese and certainly unlike Trost, the Utopia HQ was never under much duress due to the lack of Titan activity up here in the north; they could afford to keep things not only ship-shape, but practically luxurious in comparison. There were even heraldic tapestries on the walls and she heard laughter in the common areas. Mercedes glanced over it all with a mild resentment.

Anka, Pixis' aide, led her through the refreshingly cool halls; Mercedes hardly needed guiding, having been here a few times before and Pixis' chosen meeting room never changing, but let it lie. Anka's attitude toward Mercedes also hadn't seemed to have changed over the past year or so – she remained indifferent to her, apparently unquestioning of the squad leader's unusual singling-out. But Mercedes knew the reality.

"I was asked to offer you supper, should you be hungry," Anka said as they began to ascend the stairs to the second floor.

Mercedes smiled at the wording and how it supported her previous thought. The other woman perpetually hid behind citing orders instead of revealing her own hand, oblivious to the fact that in of itself this was telling.

"Commander Pixis just received his meal and commented that you might be hankering after beef lately," Anka continued.

Behind her, Mercedes watched the bounce of her chestnut 'bob against the collar of her uniform jacket. "I'm fine, thanks." Truth be told, her normally hearty appetite had been on a steady decline in recent months.

Anka didn't comment, indeed didn't speak for the rest of the walk. When they reached Pixis' designated office, she opened the door equally silently and let Mercedes slip inside, closing it behind her.

Pixis was seated in front of the only window at a small table with two chairs; the gentler rays of the evening sun ran their fingers over the glass- and silverware, illuminated the steam from his dinner of roast beef and vegetables. He dabbed his moustache with the napkin tucked into his collar like a cravat and gestured her over with his fork, not bothering to rise. "Please, sit!" he offered jovially.

For a brief moment, Mercedes eyed the empty place set opposite him. The barren plate, the hollow glass. Something cold seized her shoulders from behind and breathed ice onto her neck as she remembered the empty setting that had been laid in the Special Collection library opposite the throne room all those months ago, remembered her grandmother's fearful tale of what had happened to her uncles.

Pixis paused his chewing; surprisingly, his smile dropped. He noticed what she was looking at. "How insensitive of me; I'm sorry." He reached across and piled the silverware on the plate and put the pile of them on the floor at his feet with a clatter.

"No need to be, Sir," Mercedes said as she finally crossed the carpeted floor to sit opposite him. "I didn't realize you knew…about that." Though she was more surprised that he actually cared that it elicited a reaction in her; but then, their relationship had changed somewhat since her return – how or why wasn't clear yet, but she did know that she seemed to have demonstrated something to him and now he felt comfortable giving her, and sometimes her squad, odd tasks atypical for their experience level. Pixis seemed to regard her personally in a new light and Mercedes wasn't yet sure whether that was good or bad, considering how Erwin had used her.

Instead of commenting further he changed subject. "How's that charming grandmother of yours?" he asked, pouring some water for her out of the pitcher that'd been left. She was surprised it wasn't wine.

"She's well, though she's taking some time to adjust to her new living arrangements."

Pixis chuckled as he raised his glass, "Perhaps she'd find it more comfortable living with me. Maybe I should suggest it next time I see her."

Mercedes clamped down on her gag reflex. "By all means, Sir." She sipped at her water.

"All ready for your promotion in a couple of days?" Pixis resumed slicing into the cutlets of roast beef.

Mercedes' eyes dropped, focusing on the way the reddish juices wove among the glistening peas. She wanted to reply that it wasn't as though she had a choice, exactly, but instead said, "I believe so. Thank you for the honor, on behalf of my squad as well as myself."

"How old are you, now?"

"I'll be twenty-two next January."

"Twenty-one, eh," he surmised around a mouthful of bread, and sat back in his chair to look thoughtfully up at the ceiling. "I don't think even Brzenska or Dietrich were that young when they were promoted."

Mercedes sighed gently, tiredly. She often wondered what the purpose of their upcoming promotion to 'Elite' was, considering his above point and the fact that their skills weren't mind-blowing. They could hardly be considered to have veteran status – but then, she supposed, perhaps they were, now, since the Garrison's numbers had been depleted so significantly after the Breach by Fire. They probably didn't have much choice other than to promote whomever they could that vaguely fit the criteria, rather like a child inheriting their father's coat and hoping they'd one day grow into it.

She hadn't realized they'd be silent for so long until there was a clank of silverware and, looking up, she saw Pixis' empty plate with the fork and the knife laid together across it. He wiped his mouth and moustache with his napkin and neatly folded it in quarters. His last chew was followed by the draining of his glass.

"Eager to get to the point, as always," he muttered to himself but not unkindly. "You know that sometimes a little diversion is good for the soul, don't you?" he peered at her.

"I've heard," Mercedes enunciated into the equally crisp silence of the office.

There was a pause, and then the Commander did not so much smile as twitched the corners of his mouth. He continued, "As to why you're here…" She thought he would stand and start pacing, but he didn't. Instead he propped his elbows on the arms of his chair to better steeple his fingers. His voice was low. "A rumor has reached my ear of a plot to kidnap Annie Leonhardt, crystal and all, for purposes unknown. I would like you to investigate it immediately, see if it there's any truth to it and if so, how much weight."

She hadn't heard that name in so long. The Titan-shifter had remained confined deep underground to the point of practically being buried and forgotten during the upheaval of the Revolution. And now, someone wanted to go through the trouble of kidnapping her? "Weight indeed," she said.

"I know, it sounds ridiculous. But I'm sure you can appreciate that if it's true, it's a sensitive matter that could cause great havoc at a time when we need it least," Pixis said.

"Surely this is something for the Military Police to attend to?" Mercedes countered.

Pixis resettled in his chair; his arms dropped. He did not reply immediately.

"You suspect it's one of their own," she said for him.

"It's a possibility."

"Why me? People are starting to recognize me, now, in light of everything that happened."

Pixis stared at her a moment longer, his face impassive though she knew he had to be debating what to tell her, or how. "Two reasons," he said at length. "Three, actually. One, is that should you perform well on this investigation I am entertaining the thought of…altering your squad's duties somewhat. The second, is that you may find that our lead is of some personal interest to you."

Mercedes' chin rose a fraction and her eyes narrowed in interest. She decided she didn't need to know about the first reason and that Pixis was unlikely to tell her anyhow, but the second definitely mattered.

"The MP in question is one Baldev Usbet; I believe him to be your late mother's brother."

She stifled her surprise with a slow, deep breath. "Isn't my impartiality a concern, then?"

"You shot your own father in the name of justice; you've demonstrated that it's not."

 _'In the name of justice',_ she thought and hid a bitter smirk. Mercedes held Pixis' gaze. "You never said your third reason."

Pixis smiled, then. "Much simpler. I'm giving this task to you – and this may come as a surprise to you, so brace yourself – because I trust you."

* * *

As Mercedes rode across the western meadows between Walls Sina and Rose that once constituted the Stain, headed for Klorva, she reflected on the unusual timing of her unexpected family reunions. Not only had she unwittingly sidled into her lost paternal aunt's restaurant, but now she was assigned to investigating her maternal uncle. It was almost laughable.

But for the time being, she tried not to think about it. Every day for the past few months Mercedes made a conscious effort to provide windows of mindlessness for herself, where she purely experienced her surroundings rather than ascribed memories to them. They were pockets of relief in her world that was trying to repair itself, much like how the wildflowers and tall grasses were slowly trying to reclaim the scorched earth of the Burning Titan's footprints beneath her.

Mercedes let Sabine accelerate, of her own joy, into a gallop. She let go of the reins and instead held on with her thighs, spreading her arms wide and feeling the warm summer wind streak over her – what she imagined silk to be like. Sabine knew where to go and snorted happily. Ahead the sun was pitching itself downward for the day and hazing the air with gold, while slightly to her left were piled steel-blue clouds flashing silently with heat lightning; her and Sabine traveled that almost tangible line between the two. She grinned, letting the air fill her mouth.

* * *

Mercedes took up the kettle and poured. After placing it back on the stove, she grabbed the two cups and brought them out of the kitchen into the living room on her way to the back door.

"Oh, you should've said!" exclaimed Mrs Kirstein as she looked up from her mending project. "I would have made you both a cup."

Mercedes paused by the armchair in which she sat, between the lit fireplace and the window and its view of the rain. "It's no trouble, really. I didn't want to interrupt you."

"Well, please make sure neither of you stay out there too long – wouldn't want you to catch a summer cold. I tried to get your grandmother to come inside earlier before it started, but she seems intent on keeping me at arm's length." She lowered her head and finished a stitch in what Mercedes now recognized as a pair of Julia's trousers.

"Please don't take it personally," Mercedes smiled. "She'll come round. We're just not used to living with anyone other than each other. But we're glad to have you – it's the least we could do until Trost is rebuilt."

Mrs Kirstein smiled more confidently. "Well, thank you."

"Please don't mention it. And thank _you_ for cooking. It smells wonderful."

Mercedes left through the back door and walked as carefully yet as quickly as she could through the jungle of discarded contraptions, and though the palms of her hands were umbrellas over the handleless mugs a few raindrops managed to slip through her fingers and plop into the tea. She gratefully ducked into Julia's open-sided workshop and wove through the numerous piles, benches, and precariously-tilting shelving units until she found her. Julia sat at a workbench in the middle of all the detritus as though she'd deliberately buried herself in it for protection, with the light from a hanging oil lamp cascading over her while she tinkered with something small in her palm – something that Mercedes knew she could have easily worked on inside.

"Here," Mercedes said, and set a mug on the bench next to the tea caddy -sized chest of tiny tools that she didn't even remotely recognize. "Dinner'll be ready soon."

Julia made a grumbling noise in her throat, and didn't look up.

Mercedes shifted a box off a second stool and perched on it. She could now see that Julia was repairing a pocketwatch. "You really should be nicer to Mrs Kirstein, y'know. It's been good for you to have her here."

"She's soft, like dough," Julia said and repositioned her monocle.

"Well you're about as pleasant as a handful of barbed wire."

"So you agree with me. At least _I'm_ useful."

Mercedes leaned forward and frowned. "How is that sweet woman not useful? She feeds you. She mends your clothes. I haven't seen the house this clean since we moved in. And the ride back from the ranch took a toll on you – it's made me feel better to know there's someone else here when I'm not."

Her grandmother was silent. She held the watch up to the light briefly and blew on it. Around them, nearly obscured by the dark walls of materials and machinery, was the sound of rain. Mercedes sighed and took her tea in both hands, and averted her gaze to the cinnamon-colored dirt at her feet. It had been pounded into a sort of floor over the years – she remembered as a child scratching mazes into it for the ants with an old hammer handle while Julia simultaneously worked on people's broken farming equipment and lectured her in history. One of those particularly deep mazes, shallower now but still just about visible, peered out from under a stack of varnish cans and likewise, she felt that those days that had once seemed faded and gone were remerging.

"I met my Aunt Jana today," Mercedes said quietly, sipping her tea.

Julia looked askance at her granddaughter, and seemed to detect the unspoken accusation. She turned back to her tinkering. "I told you before that I wasn't as close to Alejandro and Rafael's wives as I was to your mother. They seemed wary of us. In light of everything that's happened it was fortunate for them to show such foresight."

"She's in Karanese," Mercedes continued. "Owns a restaurant with a soup kitchen in the back."

Julia hummed an assent.

"You knew? I thought you never visited them?"

"Well no, but you forget that I have grandchildren other than you – of course I'm going to keep track of where they are," Julia shrugged. "Even if they never write, or visit."

Mercedes lowered her eyes. "She wouldn't let me see my cousins, come to think of it." She didn't know why that had saddened, even angered her. She'd never met these people before in her life and had survived very well without being a part of theirs; why should it matter now?

Julia dropped her monocle back down into her shirt and folded away the tiny screwdriver of her multitool. She sat back and looked at Mercedes sympathetically. "Don't take it personally."

"How can't I take it personally?"

"You have to understand – your uncle's death and the circumstances surrounding it were hard on her, and she's done everything she could to, she feels, keep her children safe from their father's name. Our name. I don't blame her." Julia raised her eyebrows and held up the set of goggles she'd been repairing to inspect. "If you and I are the jaguars, Jana is the lioness. She always has been, really, but even moreso after Alejandro was framed. She has become suspicious of everyone. Trust me, it's easier to let them be, and stay away."

* * *

 **A Note from the Author:** The 'Breach by Fire' references the Burning Titan's destruction of both gates at Trost and the outer gate of Ehrmich.


	3. Chapter 3: From Shadows

**Chapter 3: From Shadows**

After dinner, Mrs Kirstein seemed to sense the unfinished conversation between Julia and Mercedes and busied herself washing dishes. But although the muted underwater clatter of the plates and the intermittent rush of the faucet was enough to create a sound barrier between kitchen and living room, Julia hooked a finger in Mercedes' shirt collar as a means of beckoning, and led her to the stairs. She crept as well as she was able with her exasperated hobble, glancing furtively over her shoulder at her houseguest as though she were a spy. Mercedes shook her head and followed her up the narrow passage.

Although Mercedes expected to be led to her grandmother's bedroom, she was surprised to find that instead, they stopped outside the locked lefthand bedroom. Julia pushed a hand into her trouser pocket and procured a single black key on a loop of braided cord, and unlocked the door but did not open it. She then looked at Mercedes and waited; Mercedes found her gaze hard to interpret, mostly because she was figuring out her own feelings about the matter.

"In here?" she whispered dumbly.

Julia nodded and took a step back.

Mercedes held her breath – her hand laid itself over the door handle and smoothed through its fine layer of dust. She turned it, and pushed.

The room was extremely dark, and Mercedes peered into the shadows like she was peering into the gullet of some huge beast. The only light was a chink of daylight from a mostly bricked-up window and as her eyes adjusted, she realized no mortar had been used around the bricks. It created a dimly-backlit, fractured blueprint of right angles and holes, except for the missing brick toward the top where the comparatively luminous green tendril of a vine snaked through and into the space beyond, holding out the briefest flush of creamy-orange bell-shaped flowers before becoming lost in the darkness.

The dark shapes of the furniture took on names. Immediately to her right on the door-side wall was a bed for two covered in pale painter's cloth, while on the left-hand wall was a dresser; a full-length mirror occupied the far left corner and stared out into the room. The far wall was dominated by two mostly-empty bookcases flanking a bricked-up window, underneath which was a desk but no chair. The right wall was empty except for a gun rack – also mostly empty, except for one rifle that she knew instinctually to be Julia's.

"You can go in, you know."

Mercedes jumped at Julia's voice and took a couple of steps over the bare floorboards. Julia entered behind her carrying a lit oil lamp and the warmth of it bathed their surroundings.

"Why didn't you mortar the bricks?" was all Mercedes could think to ask. She waved a hand at the window.

"In case I changed my mind."

Mercedes' head was a riot of shattered assumptions. She wasn't sure what she'd expected 'her parents' room' to contain, but it was almost disappointing in its barrenness; in some ways she'd been led to believe that it had every answer to questions she didn't even think of.

She watched Julia go over to the right-hand wall and as more light was loaned to it, she saw that there was a rolled-up screen of some kind situated halfway up it. With difficulty Julia reached up, snagged a loop of cord with one finger, and smoothly pulled it down. At first, Mercedes wasn't sure what she was looking at – it seemed to be a map, but followed too rigid a structure – it reminded her of Commander Erwin's scouting formation diagrams, in actuality.

"Your Uncle Valentin was the one most interested in genealogy. With Joaquin's help, they charted this," said Julia.

Mercedes joined her and obliging, Julia held up the lamp to the ivory-colored vellum. She then realized she was looking at a family tree that stretched back at least seven generations with many names she didn't recognize. Her fingertips found her parents. "I'm not on here."

"Your uncle died before you were born," Julia said solemnly. "But your Uncle Alejandro's children were in his lifetime. I figured you may want to see." She pushed the lamp to the left, lower side of the chart and Mercedes backed up. She traced the intricately-woven lines that led from Alejandro and Jana both, joined together briefly, and then split like roots into three separate ones again.

"Adrienne and Marguerite," she read, the concerned faces of the twins coming to mind again, "and Valentin." She hadn't seen the male cousin – at least, not to her knowledge. She peered at the confident script of their birthdays and saw that the girls were five years older than her, while Valentin was only three years older.

She couldn't help but think of Pixis' assignment for her; her eyes found her mother, and then looked at the neighboring names of Amaranta's two brothers – Savio, and Baldev.

"You look like you're swallowed a frog. What is it?" Julia asked.

Mercedes debated whether to tell her, and decided she'd better not. "Nothing, Julia. It's just a lot to take in today."

Julia hesitated, and then said sympathetically, "You've had a lot to take in for a while, now. You haven't been talking to me about it so I hope you're mending things with your squad. And Jean." Another pause that Mercedes didn't fill. "That's a lot of rifts to have in one's life all at once." Julia pinched the edge of the chart and drew her fingers down it.

Mercedes frowned. She shifted feet as the weight of a memory resettled on her shoulders – the night she'd let Marco go. She could still smell the ash, could hear the flames dying only to be replaced by voices shouting at her. The dryness of her skin and throat. The brief glimpse of Marco turning and running before he was lost in the darkness. How angry everyone had been at her. How many times they'd been asked for the Burning Titan's identity but never revealed it. Because she promised.

She and Jean had argued, in front of a good number of people. In the process many people now knew that she'd shot her own father and although she couldn't be sure he was dead, they thought he was, and with him the potential to learn more about the enemy. And then she let Marco go – let yet another opportunity to learn go. And Jean had left with the 59th Expedition to take Eren to Shinganshina. He'd left without telling her goodbye.

Mercedes blinked back an unexpected tear, and realized Julia was gone. The oil lamp sat on the floor, the heat from its flume managing to make the dowel-weighted edge of the chart wave ever so slightly. She picked it up and held its glass bowl cradled in her hands, stared at the names of her ancestors disappearing into the darkness overhead. Something fierce in her wanted to write her own name beneath her parents' – just one thing to let the world know that she existed in so simple a fashion as a daughter of a man and a woman rather than the strange creature she'd become: the cause of and perpetuator of so much chaos but also expected to work behind a veil.

She didn't have the heart to investigate the other contents of the room for more family secrets. She wanted to be in bed already. Mercedes left, pulling the door to behind her. After placing the oil lamp on the little table in the hall she went downstairs; sensing her intentions, Julia handed over her uniform jacket and gave her a peck on the cheek before making her way to the back door and, presumably, her workshop with the help of her broom.

Mrs Kirstein, however, lingered. She smiled kindly at her as she finished drying her hands. "Going so soon? It's still raining a bit," she said.

"I have to, I'm afraid." Mercedes looked away at the front door. "No rest for the wicked."

There was a pause, and then Mrs Kirstein said gently, "You're not wicked, dear."

For a split second Mercedes thought she had simply taken things too literally, but then Mrs Kirstein wrapped her in an embrace and didn't let go; Mercedes gave up resisting and let herself melt into the hug. Mrs Kirstein smelt of the lemons she'd been using to clean.

"Be good and safe," Mrs Kirstein said, her voice muffled.

"I'll try."

"And don't worry about Jeanbo. He always comes round. I'm sure he loves you."

Mercedes wasn't sure how to respond; the sliver of embarrassment that tried to creep up on her didn't make it very far. She'd become mostly immune to Mrs Kirstein's less than secret hopes for her and Jean's relationship and in its place had grown a quiet sort of appreciation for the older woman's maternal instincts. Mrs Kirstein never seemed to expect anything from her – she was different from Julia, in that sense.

Mrs Kirstein finally let go of her. "Be sure and take this," she grabbed a linen satchel from the kitchen table, "I've packed the conditioner your grandmother makes for you, some new tea I found at the market, some of the stuffed apples I heard you like, that blouse you said you didn't have time to mend…a few other things…" She seemed to detect she was rambling and shrugged happily to herself.

Mercedes smiled at her and took the satchel. "Thank you for this, really. You didn't have to."

"Of course I did! Jeanbo's not here for me to take care of so this is the least I can do."

* * *

Mercedes crept quietly into the dorm room she shared with Baena, and now Fhalz and Oliver too. Her former two roommates – Baena's friends – had been killed during the Breach by Fire and, gender segregation no longer being as high a priority, the two young men had taken the morbid opportunity to move in. It was convenient, she had to admit, but also stifling at times. Oliver and Fhalz slept soundly in the bunks to the right, but she didn't hear Baena's oddly musical little snore from her topmost bunk to the left.

Mercedes set down the satchel and slowly pulled off her boots, stripping down to her underwear. She waited for Baena's voice.

"I was wondering where you were," Baena murmured.

Mercedes paused in turning down her covers. She felt a pang of guilt. "I stopped by Julia's."

There was a long pause, in which Mercedes climbed gratefully into her bed and got settled. She was about to turn over when Baena spoke again.

"You still want us as your squad, don't you?"

Mercedes felt even worse. She sighed and passed a hand over her forehead and into her hair, holding it there. "Of course I do."

"You could've fooled me."

Mercedes frowned deeply. She heard Baena shift above her and all fell silent. Mercedes rolled over too and dwelled on her words until she fell asleep.

* * *

 _Mercedes dreamt, over and over, of falling to her knees in the family graveyard and shooting her father as he rode away. She also relived the dream of watching herself play as a child with her three cousins in that graveyard, Jana weeding around her husband's tombstone and turning the nettles into soup. She dreamt of riding through fire and a world made entirely of ash. She dreamt of being hung in front of the Ehrmich gate for the people to torment. She dreamt of her squad stripping themselves of their uniforms and skin, becoming the jaguars of her family's legend, only to rush out to clash tooth and claw with the lions of Jana's children as Annie, with a suit of crystal armor, looked on. She dreamt of glimpsing Marco in every passerby in the streets they were rebuilding from where he'd crushed them. She dreamt of Jean walking alone across a barren plain of sand with broken blades in his hands._

 _With each image she felt like she was filling in a blank of some kind – giving something a name, adding new territory to a map or a new child to a family tree – but she couldn't back up and see what the greater picture was._

 _She relived the dream of Historia on her throne of corpses, pulling her strings, her voice whispering to her – or was it hers to Historia's ear? – and the words only making sense when the view changed, as though they were shot like a bullet, to a view of a tranquil emerald-shaded lake. A shrill wind clawed through their hair and struck their faces with torn willow leaves. One of them whispered to the other, "I'm not safe. There are faces in the shadows."_


	4. Chapter 4: Haunted

**Chapter 4 – Haunted**

Mercedes only slept for five hours, and woke with the first pale shade of dawn. She was showered, dressed, and away from the Trost Garrison HQ's temporary barracks before the others were even up; it was easier for her to stomach traveling the ruins of the town while there was less light, but it still unsettled her to see where shadows were missing or hear when Sabine's hooves hit dirt instead of cobble.

She had her usual round of guard duty in the afternoon, which gave her the morning to do some initial research into what little information Pixis had given her the previous evening. It was a relief not to be excused from her regular duties – she didn't want the attention that would bring – but wondered how long it would last.

 _I suppose that depends on if there's any substance to the rumor_ , she thought.

Mercedes turned the corner into the rather scattershot market plaza. It stretched either side of the street to form an agora, but many of the stalls had clearly not been used since the initial set up. Not much of Trost's population had returned yet – there wasn't much to return to – and the return of crops and business was just as half-hearted, though it was difficult to tell which one caused the other. The town hosted mostly military at this point and, gradually as materials trickled in, construction teams.

And Mercedes felt all of it as a personal guilt, no matter how hard she tried not to and how much she logically knew otherwise. She could barely look at the few merchants that were bothering – or able – to set up for the morning. Instead she focused on Sabine's steady hoof-falls.

She didn't focus on the first of the rotting walnuts to hit her shoulder and back. Neither did she focus on the slimy strands of spring onion that caught of her arm and the reins. She didn't focus on the snickers, or murmurs of "the rotten warden", or the sarcastic cry to "give more offerings to our mighty protector". Someone flitted by and showered her with a handful of moldy bread crumbs like confetti. A too-soft tomato hit her jacket and she could feel the skin and juices drip and slip off its hem and seep through her shirt. She didn't remove her stare from the inner gate a few yards ahead, didn't increase Sabine's pace.

She couldn't help but take notice, however, when something harder than refuse hit the back of her head. She glanced down at the _ting_ of something metal, and saw a bolt roll in a half-circle until it lodged in a crack. Mercedes stopped Sabine and there were jeers in response. She glanced around at the gathering crowd, now grown from a few grocers to a drift of other civilians, too, coming off what once constituted side streets and alleys or out of the broken shells of the buildings. Another piece of metal hit her knuckle from the opposite direction and she snapped her head around to look for the perpetrator; the laughter grew louder and Sabine began to grow nervous. She was rained on with what appeared to be a bucketload of nuts from above and as Sabine whinnied and danced in response, feeding off of the feelings she was trying not to feel, she looked up to the nearby roof just in time to see some older children scampering away. Her teeth clenched and her body began to heave with the calming breaths she was taking.

 _You're not wicked,_ she repeated Mrs Kirstein's words. _They're not the enemy,_ she repeated Jean's words as she looked around at the contorted faces, trying to think how best to respond. _Do not retaliate. Do not fuel them. They don't know what they're saying._

The hammer flew at her face. She only just managed to catch it; the claw tore into her fingers and luckily, the fingerless gloves she'd taken to wearing stopped it from carving into her palm. The crowd went quiet but Mercedes didn't hear it – her head was loud again with memory and blood fuming like fire. She swung her hand up to throw it back and the crowd flinched back as one undulating shadow in the dim morning light.

But she stopped herself. For an incredibly heavy moment nothing was said or done. She tamed the voices in her head and the horrible instinct that'd tried to shred its way out of her. Her hand lowered. By all rights, she could have them arrested.

She sighed, and raised her voice, "Instead of throwing your tools at me, perhaps using them to rebuild your lives would be energy better-spent." She tossed the hammer on the ground and jabbed her heels into Sabine's ribs, and they walked on.

* * *

"We have a visitor."

Shadis grunted, and only looked up from the recently-supplied rosters of new recruits when Miranda rounded his desk and leaned on it to get his attention. "And?" he quipped.

"Seems one of our old trainees looks a little worse for wear," she smiled, and the apples of her cheeks pushed several crinkles around her eyes. She stood, placing her hands on her kidneys to arch her back a little. "Though I can't imagine why she's here."

Shadis frowned. "Who?"

Footsteps that stopped at the doorway to their office. The brief beat of a hand in salute on a leather jacket. He looked around Miranda as she stood aside. "Mercedes Carello, Sir."

In an unanticipated way, looking at her was like seeing a ghost. Shadis wasn't sure why. He'd seen plenty of his past recruits after graduation and he'd never felt as caught off-guard as he did now, even with the warning of her coming. But she was the first past recruit from the 104th he'd seen since the Breach by Fire, and in remembering the 104th he was remembering an old life, one that he'd tried to build in light of forgoing an even older one. In that sense, Carello being here unintentionally represented how much had been lost to corruption, Titans, and time.

He blinked slowly and the memories faded, replaced by a tiredness.

"At ease," the words tumbled from his mouth rather than were actively spoken – Shadis was concentrating not only on taking in the soldier's appearance but recollecting what it was that Commander Pixis said she would need.

"I apologize for my state of dress, Chief Shadis, Chief Carlstedt-Gaus. I cleaned as best I could. There was a small disturbance at the Trost market on my way here."

Shadis' eyes passed over the stains on her shirt and trousers and thought he could detect a faint smell of rot. Her right hand had fresh gauze wrapped around her three outermost fingers, binding them together.

"'Disturbance'?" Miranda said.

Carello paused and did not yet enter the room. "They decided…" she stopped. Shadis noticed one of her fists clench and unclench. "I've acquired a few nicknames in light of what happened with the Burning Titan, 'rotten warden' being one of them. 'Hollow -' or 'dead warden' is becoming more popular, too."

"Unfounded, of course," Miranda said and shifted feet.

"And irrelevant," Carello was quick to add, with the slightest tone of insubordination that he still remembered from over four years ago. Not enough to warrant a reprimand but still unfavorable. "I don't mean to waste your time with how the morning went. I'm actually hoping you can help me with some information." She looked between the two of them, the sunshine blazing through the windows to give her hair streaks of gold like the papers still under Shadis' hand.

He tapped them one with his fingertips, and stood. "The Commander mentioned it." He glanced at Miranda, whose hazel eyes were squinting at him over the rim of her glasses in a playful sort of disapproval – he'd talk to her later if all didn't become clear now – and determined she posed no risk. No doubt Pixis wouldn't have told him anything or sent anything their way if he didn't want Miranda or the other Chief Instructors to possibly catch wind of it. And luckily, the other two were out today – he trusted Miranda infinitely more than them.

"Come in, and shut the door, if you don't mind," Miranda said for him, not looking away from him. He heard Carello follow her erstwhile Instructor's advice. "I'll leave you both to it, then. Don't mind me." She crossed the room to her own desk opposite his, nearest the door, and patted Carello affectionately on the shoulder as she passed.

As Carello approached he nodded to the one 'visitor' chair in the room, currently in front of his desk, that was responsible for all the scuffs and gauges on the wooden floor after being dragged from one spot to another over the years. As he turned to the two low shelves bordering the long window behind his desk, he noted that Carello did not yet sit. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. He pushed aside a propped-up chart that hid the metal document box Pixis had sent late last night – which was intuitive of him, come to think of it, since he likely had little way of knowing that Carello would come here and so soon. He grabbed it and placed it on his desk. Only when he sat down to unlock it did Carello sit, too.

Shadis felt rather than looked for the right key. He examined Carello across from him and she sat there, holding his gaze, unbothered by the scrutiny, as though her eyes themselves were scars. He supposed she was used to being stared at by now and some small part of him was made unhappy by this. It wasn't that the years hadn't been kind to her, exactly, but somehow she was older than the smartass that'd stalked onto his training ground for the first time that Thursday; somehow, something in her had been both hollowed-out and struck into new shapes, like a tree that'd been struck by lightning. Maybe 'hollow warden' wasn't far from the truth, though not in the way the mobs intended.

He looked away to pocket his key and lift the box's lid with a squeak. There was an assortment of papers inside and he scooped them out and let them fall between them. He hadn't looked through them himself, assumed it was none of his business, but just in the way he had known back then that there was something strange about the roster-courier inquiring about Carello children, back when the woman across from him was ready to join, he knew today that there was a reason Pixis had known to send this box to him.

"We don't normally have copies of Military Police records here with ours," Shadis said by way of introducing the short pile. "I assume the Commander thought this would be a safer place for you to look through them. That's what you're here for, isn't it?"

"If those records concern Baldev Usbet, then yes."

Shadis nudged the papers toward her with the backs of his nails, and noticed that she was looking at him with the same amount of scrutiny that was likely on his face. "You're wondering if I know why you're poking your nose around where it doesn't belong. And the answer's no. Not that it matters – I'm just following Pixis' orders. Bearing that in mind, if you don't want me at this desk then I presume all this means you're in a position to tell me to leave you alone."

Her small amount of discomfort that he detected was satisfying. A shifting of the line of her brow, the slight swell of her right cheek, stretching the thin scar slightly above it, as she tapped at it with her tongue. At last she said, "Then if you don't mind, Sir. It's only that I want to digest what I'm looking at before I determine what can be divulged."

Shadis felt his upper lip twitch a fraction, attempting the only version of a smile he felt capable of lately. He stood and reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, procuring the other item Pixis had sent. "I guess you deserve to borrow this, then." He placed the bronze medallion down on a bare spot on the table, one edge at a time, with a clack, and slid it toward her – the white ribbon with the red-embroidered rose skittered behind it. "He said you should return it to me or to him 'when all's done'. It'll apparently be useful in your task, so don't lose it."

He rounded the desk and walked away before he could see her take it, as if visual confirmation would also mean an acknowledgement that he too placed as much faith in her as his Commander. And he wasn't willing to give Carello that just yet. He strode over to Miranda, who was watching him with a barely-contained grin that, ironically, made the corners of her mouth turn downward. A scrape of a chair had him glancing over his shoulder – Carello got up and sat in his seat instead, presumably so she didn't have her back to the room. He thought about saying something, but Miranda's hand on his arm stopped him; he looked at her with more of a sharp plea than he had wanted. She shrugged, still smiling at his expense, before going back to her revision of the obstacle course. 

* * *

**A Note from the Author:** Those of you familiar with the SnK prequel manga _Before The Fall_ may have recognized part of Miranda's surname, Carlstedt. I have a mini-headcanon that Maria Carlstedt had a daughter named Miranda who eventually became a Head Instructor like Shadis.


	5. Chapter 5: Human Error

**Chapter 5: Human Error**

Mercedes first pocketed the medal; she'd look at it later when there was more time, but for now assumed that like the note with Zackley's seal she'd been sent in the past, this acted in a similar fashion from Pixis. But what was pertinent right now was what was in front of her. Out of respect she moved Shadis' own papers and clipboard to one side, face down, and then dragged those on Baldev Usbet closer.

A quick flick through told her they were all copies – sealless and all written in the same hand, same paper. It made her wonder not only who had made the copies but whether their brief absence had been known. Presumably they'd been made so that she could keep them if needs be, but she knew she couldn't carry them around with her much less take them back to the dorm. They'd have to stay here when she was done.

First there was a copy of the roster sheet from when he'd been a trainee back in Year 820, listing his date of birth as June of Year 805, hometown as Dainis – presumably a village she'd not heard of. He'd been ascribed to the Western Division, probably not unlike her paternal uncles, and his next of kin was listed as her mother. Next were three assessment sheets showing his increasing progress, aptitudes and weaknesses, as observed by a past Chief Instructor of the Western Division – these she set aside for closer analysis. Then there was a graduate roster from two years later, showing that he had apparently graduated ranked 10th and thereafter chosen to enlist in the Military Police. This was followed by a letter dated shortly after the graduation, signed by his Instructor and addressed to the then-Commander of the MP – a quick scan told her that it was cautioning the Commander of Baldev's aggressive and unruly conduct and brash personality despite his skill.

 _Gets into the military as soon as he can, manages to score access to a life in the Interior,_ she surmised. _No wonder Momma didn't see him much if at all._ _But how was somebody with apparently shitty behavior still allowed in, or to graduate at all?_

What followed were a few exchanges of correspondence between Baldev's Squad Leader, Lieutenant, and then Commander concerning a warrant for his arrest for misuse of government property and funds in Year 847, which was also included. Nothing seemed to have come from it after a brief and vague interjection by the then Commander-in-Chief.

The pile ended with a short handwritten list of Baldev's current security access levels, licenses, and beats, as well as the names of his squadmates and immediate and intermediate supervisors and, interestingly, a street address with no explanation. She folded this into eighths and pocketed it with the medal.

 _Something happened in 847, and judging by the Commander-in-Chief's vague dismissal, most of the conversation was off the record. Surely something like 'misuse of government property and funds' shouldn't be settled off the record?_

Mercedes sat back in the chair, staring at the papers spread in front of her. Her eyes lingered on his assessments and the hasty crosshatching of the stat grids they contained trying to disappear in the glare of sun on paper. "I have questions, Chiefs," she spoke into the quiet of the office. Across from her, the Chief Instructors looked up from whatever it was they were doing.

"Go ahead," said Carlstedt-Gaus.

"How many rounds of assessments does a trainee go through before they graduate?"

"They're quarterly."

"And are all of them kept on file?"

"They should be."

Mercedes flicked again through her pile to make sure she hadn't missed something. She still came up with only three assessments and assumed she would have been sent everything as long as they existed. "Is there any logical reason why some might be missing?"

Shadis and Carlstedt-Gaus looked at one another in debate, the latter shrugging. Shadis answered, "Human error."

She digested this for a moment. Loss of any kind, then, unintentional or deliberate. "It's always the Chief Instructor of the Division who does the assessments, right, barring any unforeseens?"

"Correct."

"Who then files them?"

"The Chief Instructor – they stay here with us," Carlstedt-Gaus gestured at the wall of shelves, "during the trainee years and then, once they pick a division, their record goes with them to that division's record office with the exception of the original trainee registration rosters and the end graduation rosters. Obviously if they pick the Garrison, we keep the assessments and everything else too."

Mercedes thought some more. "Was there any reason that either of you can recall why the Western Division would only have three assessments between 820 to 822?"

"They didn't have only three," Carlstedt-Gaus said with a confident smile. "Because we have your uncles' records. They have all eight in _their_ files." She seemed to let Mercedes stew in her confusion for a moment more, and then jerked her chin in her direction and said, "Why don't you tell us what these questions pertain to. I feel like I'm in an interrogation!"

Mercedes hesitated under both their gazes – Shadis' as always coming from the two dark caves of his eye sockets, his face looking more and more skull-like lately, while the more familiar one belonging to Carlstedt-Gaus came from a softer face but was no less penetrating, like two needles piercing through a flower. Pixis had given no guidance as to whom she could share her thoughts, and presumably that was part of his overall test of her too. She was to use her discretion and at first it had seemed so simple; so simple, because surely those she'd encounter, potentially to involve, would be those of lesser or equal reputation to her – easy to use and easy to keep safe, like knives.

 _Not so. And you've already tasted that by not letting anyone know the Burning Titan was Marco._ Mercedes blinked, and she felt her face become lax, impassive. She leant forward, bracing her forearms on the desk. "With due respect, I think it'd be better if I kept this to myself." She paused to let this sink in, and then offered them a faint flick of a smile. "I appreciate your help. If you don't mind, I'd like to leave these papers here."

Shadis nodded with a grunt.

"And I have just one more question: Chief Carlstedt-Gaus, who was your predecessor?" asked Mercedes.

She did not answer immediately; during her pause she looked away, moistening her thin lips. Even Shadis seemed confused by her hesitation. Then she returned her gaze, and said, "Shall I tell you something, 'Cee?"

The use of her nickname was a thread pulling her back into the old days, when she didn't know any better, and Mercedes tried to resent it but couldn't when it was her Instructor who said it.

"It's okay to keep things to yourself. We get it, we really do," Carlstedt-Gaus continued. "You've been given a task that's above our heads. It's an unusual circumstance. But be careful about keeping too much to yourself; you can only get so far without help. Furthermore, the nature of this task seems to be pushing you toward playing politics when lately, no one's sure what the board looks like or what piece belongs to whom. You need to be prepared for that. You're young, still, and that game never ends well."

She paused for the respectful length of time and then said, "I appreciate the advice."

Carlstedt-Gaus' expression changed to one of sadness, and then she raised a hand and waved it helplessly. "Damon Pfeiffer. He was my predecessor. But who knows where he is or even if he's still alive."

Mercedes nodded to herself and stood, glancing at the clock on one of the middle shelves. "Thank you for your time."

* * *

Later, atop Wall Rose above Karanese on guard duty, Mercedes waited for Fhalz by the elevator dock; she was early for their shift, but by his standards he was late. It didn't bother her, since it gave her a few minutes to look at the medal Shadis had given her on Pixis' behalf. The white silk of the ribbon flapped wildly in the breeze, making the vivid scarlet and emerald of the embroidered rose flicker from bright to faded.

 _That flickering between life and death._ Mercedes shook herself out of what she'd learnt to be a hovering on the top step of a spiral of stairs down into the darker places in her head, where her dreams, thorny memories, and paranoia resided.

She focused again on the medal. The bronze was well-worn, leading her to speculate that the ribbon had been replaced at some point. Its face was bordered by a wreath of thorns, but otherwise curiously blank; upon turning it over in her now individually-bandaged fingers, she saw there was an inscription on the back: _Sub rosa, spina._ It was nearly rubbed to nothing in parts as though someone had continually passed their thumb over it for courage, or a nervous tick, and she didn't recognize the language. Maybe Fhalz would know.

"' _Sub rosa, spina'_ ," she murmured. _Something about roses and maybe thorns?_

"Hey, sorry I'm late."

Mercedes tucked the medal back in her jacket's breast pocket. She hadn't even heard the elevator come up.

"Had to go to Mitras."

"Why?" Mercedes asked.

Fhalz stuttered a moment. "Oh, no reason really. My parents wanted me to run an errand for them." He came to stand near her faced west, where the wind was coming from, so he could retie his auburn hair in its ponytail. It'd gotten long lately, she reflected; almost all of it could be kept back now instead of just the top half.

She processed his answer and demeanor a moment more and deduced she could trust it. She looked toward the Karanese gatehouse and saw the two guards they were replacing beginning to walk their way. "You're not late," she said. "Well, not by normal people's standards."

Fhalz had a cautious look on his face as he joined her in their walk toward the gatehouse. "So, uh, how was your morning? We didn't see you at breakfast, and you missed Wednesday armpit-cobweb-sweeps."

"Uneventful."

A few flecks of rain fell from the streaks of clouds overhead, like tiny diamonds falling in the sunshine.

"We were talking about what to do for Oliver's birthday. It's coming up in a week. Any ideas?"

"I'll think about it."

The steady clack of their gear as they took each step punctuated each piece of information she processed from the Garrison record office. She watched the slats of the supply and cannon railtracks approach her one stitch at a time and looked among them for her next move. Abruptly, she noticed that Fhalz had stopped a few paces ago.

"What?" she asked.

Fhalz hooked his thumbs into his belt. His expression held an uncharacteristic amount of sympathy. "I wish you'd come back to us, 'Cee. We're still your squad. We used to tell each other everything – remember that day in the yard, when Baena dragged us out there and made us strip down, said we'd never hide anything from each other ever again? Whatever happened to that?"

"Who said I'm hiding things?"

"No one. But you barely talk to us. You're barely _around_. You haven't been the same since we got back to the Wall and the Burning Titan disappeared again. And then Jean left and, well." He folded his arms. "We care about you. We want you to be okay. But it's hard to know how to help if you don't tell us anything."

Mercedes folded her arms too, not acknowledging the greetings of the other two guards as they passed on their way to the elevator. Fhalz said hello for them both. She took in his words, feeling again the pang of guilt she'd felt last night at Baena's own. Once the other guards were a few paces away, she turned and continued walking to their post; Fhalz caught up with her and she let him walk beside her instead of trying to hurry away. She still felt that pull from their confidant nature to one another; it was still difficult to keep anything from him even though she'd been doing better about it lately.

"You know that whatever it is, we've got your back," he added.

Like she'd thought back when she was conspiring to kill the King, she wondered again about whether her squad could hold up to torture.

"Whatever it is," he insisted.

After a few more paces, she said, "I can't tell you everything right now. It's…classified. And I don't even know what I'm looking at yet anyway."

"If you're protecting us –

"I try my best."

"– then stop. We may have fucking roses on our backs but we're more like thorns."

Mercedes smiled to herself. She thought of the medal in her pocket. She felt some of her bad mood lifted. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. How about we all just get a drink tonight and…I don't know, reconnect or whatever you want to call it."

"I do have a question that you might be able to help me with," she said.

"Shoot."

"Does 'sub rosa, spina' make any sense to you?"

Fhalz thought for a minute. "There was an old, dead language once, I think, called Latin. Obviously we're not meant to know that but it's funny, because Latin was one of the places the language we use now comes from. I'm afraid I couldn't tell you exactly what that phrase means without research, but I'm pretty sure it's Latin. Something to do with roses and thorns, I'd say." He paused. "Why do you ask?"

"Just something I saw."


	6. Chapter 6: What's Yours Is Mine

**Chapter 6: "What's Yours Is Mine"**

 _(A few days' ride from Shiganshina)_

A dry wind kicked over the plain and into the camp as though bounced between grass and night sky, and teased both the tongues of the fire and the edges of the paper Jean had secured from Moblit. He shifted a little so that his body better blocked it, and continued trying to compose.

Armin walking by and joining him at his little fire was a welcome distraction. He looked up to see the slighter young man holding his own mug of coffee in both hands as he sat down with a clunk of gear. He regretted welcoming the distraction, however, when he saw how Armin caught sight of the paper; Jean found himself hiding it with one arm across the top of the clipboard he'd also borrowed, like a boy not wanting to share his test answers.

"Writing to her?" Armin asked, and Jean could detect the faint hope in his otherwise deliberately-docile voice.

Jean wedged his lips between his teeth and rubbed them back and forth. Armin had of course been there for the argument, as had many others, and had counseled him against leaving without making amends though he had done so anyway. And Armin knew what they were to each other, moreso than any of the others. Jean knew it would be okay to talk to him and have it not go any further, but it was still difficult to broach.

He stared at the only thing he'd written on the page: 'Mercedes'. He didn't know where to begin, or how to not want to begin.

His pen hovered, then fell flat. "Trying," Jean said gloomily. He added more quietly, "I wish I could see her. I'm no good at this." He stared off at the other little fires, the faint olive planes of the tents.

"What is it you want to tell her?" Armin encouraged.

What _did_ he want to tell her? Everything, and yet nothing. The more stubborn part of his brain insisted that there was nothing to say after their argument, but the memory of her calling after him – _"Do you remember what you promised me? Tell me what you promised me!"_ – as he walked away was a fishhook in his heart, its line tangling itself through his veins and pulling every so often.

A couple of girls wrapped in blankets over their uniform cloaks passed by, shushing each other and glancing at him and giggling. The one with the platinum-blonde pigtails winked at him. Jean shifted uncomfortably.

"This bunch of rookies are rather giggly, don't you think?" he said.

"You're avoiding my question," Armin smiled.

Jean sighed. "I know." He picked up his tin mug of coffee and sipped, squinting as the nastily-lukewarm liquid hit his lips; he spat it out and wiped his mouth, putting it back down by his feet. Eve had brought it to him a while ago and he'd forgotten it and now he'd have to suffer.

"You're still worked up over the argument," Armin tried again.

They'd been in the bones of Trost; he couldn't even call it a street. He remembered having run to them because Marco had had her in his hand, and his flames had died down completely over his body until he was a figure sketched in charcoal being scratched away by the wind. Marco had crouched and for several ash-filled minutes they both disappeared to Jean; he found Mercedes bursting from beneath the remains of Marco's hand, but Marco himself was gone and though Jean plunged into the drifts of ash to search for him, Mercedes had held him back and that had sparked everything that he'd pent up in his chest since they left the ranch, or maybe even before then.

"Jean?"

She'd told him no. Not to look for him. She'd told him she'd promised to let him leave without a word to anyone. He'd told her that she couldn't just make decisions for everyone, act as if her moral compass was superior to everyone else's. She had, of course, objected. He'd shot back that killing her father – awful in of itself – when so much could have been learned from him, and likewise then with letting Marco go and consulting no one about either of those things proved it. He hadn't realized what he was saying, but he'd told her he didn't know who she was. She'd quoted him, saying…

" _"If it's yours, it's mine"_ ," he intoned. His throat constricted when he recalled how she'd teared up. He drank the awful coffee anyway but it didn't help.

"Jean."

Jean remembered Armin was there. That they were on expedition. That they were bringing Eren back to Shiganshina. "Sorry," he said. "Yeah. You were right. I shouldn't have left on such a bad note. I just…I just have a lot to think about. The things she did…it seemed like I could accept them at the time because I thought she could handle them and that it wouldn't affect our goal that much, but…now that I think about it, she acted in her own interests and it's hurt us. That's not even getting into what the acts themselves were. I'm worried about her but I'm mad at her." He crumpled the page with her name in his hand and threw it into the fire. "And I'm mad at myself for not taking some of the burden."

"What could you reasonably have done to help her? I wasn't there but, it sounds like all of it was a very personal burden," Armin said. "She's always been different. She was never going to play by the same book as the rest of us. She took care of her business in the way she thought best. And sure, maybe we've experienced a setback but maybe we haven't. We're still going to the basement; Eren can still seal the Shiganshina breach the same way he sealed the outer Trost gate. Nothing's really changed in our world, in that sense."

" _My_ world has changed, though," Jean said. "I know I said that I want to see her – I do, and yet…I've hurt her and she's hurt me, and…I love her and I'm pretty sure she still loves me –"

"I'm sure she does."

"– but I just don't think I can be with her for a while. I don't know if I can accept what she's done and would probably happily do again, now."

"That sounds unnecessarily complicated," said Armin and he wasn't smiling.

His lack of smile prompted Jean to ask, "Why?"

"Surely, if you love someone, you forgive them anything?"

Maybe it was the bite of the coffee, or the bitterness of his mood that it resembled, but Jean unintentionally let out a sardonic laugh. "In storybooks, maybe. Have _you_ ever actually been in love?"

"I've been around it enough and I have, yes. Have _you_?" Armin stood. "Please don't patronize me when I'm trying to help you, Jean." He walked away.

Jean was shocked. He presumed by 'been around it enough' he meant Eren and Mikasa, though that was a different kind of love, but Armin had never talked about being in love himself. Now that he thought about it, he couldn't even think of who it might be and this hurt, like he'd missed something obvious for years. Maybe he had. And evidently it was a sensitive enough topic to make Armin walk away when he was normally forgiving.

"Well shit," he muttered to himself. He ran a hand over his face. Though he knew it to be in vain, he searched for the page he'd thrown away in the fire; there was nothing, but he didn't feel as if he had the energy to try again.

* * *

That night found the Jaguar Squad out at a tavern in Karanese, sliding into a booth in the corner that had luckily just been vacated. Baena and Fhalz took the middle, while Oliver and Mercedes sat on the outside; Mercedes had ordered a round on her before the waitress had even finished wiping off the table.

"Have to say," Baena said as the waitress disappeared, "I'm surprised! But so glad! We never go out as a team anymore."

Mercedes understood the unspoken question and though she wanted to wait to have alcohol in her hand first, Fhalz was looking at her. "Yeah, well, I've not treated you guys all that well since we got back." She paused to replace the lazy tone in her voice with sincerity. "I'm sorry."

The waitress came with their cider, deposited the nearly-overflowing flagons and left. They dragged their drinks closer.

Baena, as always, was the first to smile. Mercedes felt her reach out her long legs to teasingly play footsie with her under the table, like she frequently did when she wanted to get her to laugh. "It's okay," she said. The footsie stopped. "We knew it was never going to be sunshine and rainbows all the time."

"Yeah, but…I've been awful."

"So?" Baena shrugged. "What kind of friends would we be if we just forgot about you? We've all been in a bad place and we'll all be in a bad place at some point in the future. But that's why we're a squad. That's why you picked us to be with you, to be together – because you knew we'd survive anything."

Mercedes finally managed a smile.

"Where have you been staying, the nights you haven't come back to base?" Oliver asked after a sip of cider.

Mercedes lowered her eyes to her own flagon. "Occasionally at Julia's. Sometimes didn't sleep at all, just roamed. Other nights, rented a room – not far from here, actually."

"You rented a room when you had a perfectly good, _free_ bed waiting for you?" Baena giggled a little.

"Silly, I know," she agreed, though her heart wasn't quite in the opinion yet. "I guess I just thought it better if I was alone."

"Well that's not true. Whatever your burden is, it's ours."

There was another pause and she had to confess a small amount of pride in watching them scan the moderately-crowded room, even in downtime, clocking exits and rowdier customers, noting faces. Judging by Baena not waving to anyone, there wasn't anyone in here that they knew.

"So, are you gonna tell us why you had to go to Utopia yesterday? Squad Leader Brzenska let it slip when she took over your shift," Fhalz, beside her to her left, said.

 _Deliberately, I'm sure,_ Mercedes thought with a faintly appreciative smile. "And here Pixis was berating me for wanting to get straight to the point," she said.

"Commander Pixis?" Fhalz echoed.

Somehow, it felt good – the prospect of sharing with them. How she'd ever thought it'd feel awful now felt far away and ridiculous and Baena's consoling words felt closer. She even had the preliminary inklings of how they could help her and it gave her a little more life than she'd had previously.

She glanced around her as surreptitiously as she could and Oliver, across from her, seemed to detect what she was doing. He eyed her blindspot and held up a couple of fingers as he took another swig and she waited. A waitress passed by on her way to the bar, and his fingers lowered. Simultaneously the four of them leaned forward and closer together, adopting false smiles for whomever might be watching. The booths to either side of them had emptied and luckily the noise of the rest of the patrons was enough to mask their conversation.

"He's asked me to investigate a rumor," Mercedes said. "Someone may want to kidnap Annie." She didn't feel comfortable calling the girl by her first name only, but figured it wouldn't perk up as many ears as her full name or 'the Female Titan'. "And the main lead is an uncle I've never met. I've already done some preliminary research on him and plan on doing some more in the morning."

"More uncles?" Oliver's face dropped a little.

Mercedes smiled at this. "One of my mother's brothers. An MP."

"Why would anyone want…and _how_?" Baena scrunched up her nose. "It's not like you can just slip her into your pocket and waltz on out."

"I'm assuming you even know where she's being kept?" Fhalz asked in a low whisper.

"I do."

After a moment, Fhalz said, "Where do we start?" and smiled at her.

Mercedes shouldn't have been, but she was shocked. She glanced at Baena and Oliver, the former who flopped against the latter's huge arm as they both smiled too. "You heard him," Baena cooed.

"Tomorrow then, bright and early. We'll go for a run, have breakfast, talk to Rico, and get going. I don't want to talk specifics here."

"You sure there's nothing to do tonight? The night's still young, sort of. At least probably by your standards," said Fhalz. There was an eagerness in his face that reminded Mercedes of their younger days. He was always the one who was impatient to begin, even if it meant to hurry up and wait.

She thought of the piece of folded paper in her pocket containing Baldev's security accesses and related information, and the street address. "I suppose there is something we can do tonight. But let's finish our drinks first; no need to speed off. Still need to figure out what we're doing for your birthday, Ol'."

* * *

 **A Note from the Author:** Happy shout-out to  Wings of Waxx and ohtobealady for your reviews! Thank you to everyone who's been reading this new installment. It means a lot! Don't forget to let me know what you think. :)


	7. Chapter 7: Weight

**Chapter 7: Weight**

The address that had been handwritten on the paper Mercedes had kept from Baldev's pile had been identified by Fhalz as being in Trost, which led her to wonder if it still existed after the Breach by Fire. However, if the list was current, then the likelihood of it still standing was higher. She doubted a pile of rubble would be seen as relevant.

Fhalz led them on horseback through the gentle rain; the squad had seemed unperturbed by the change in weather despite Mercedes' offer to just go home for the night. No one was out and about, and Mercedes was glad of it.

"You sure you know where you're going?" Baena asked.

"Give me a little more credit," Fhalz said, and apparently he was in a good mood judging by the lack of bite normally in his voice at similar doubts. "I memorized the layout of Trost a while back, and Squad Leader Brzenska had me review it in light of all the construction. I know where we're going. Not far now."

They took a detour to avoid the central area in the block where they were piling all of the debris, but then Fhalz led them up a slope toward a row of three warehouses. The left-hand one was partially caved-in on one corner but the others seemed largely intact. The squad stopped halfway up the slope.

"366 Clock Street," Fhalz said and nodded at the warehouses. "And I'm guessing number two is the one in the middle."

"The one that says '2' on it, eh."

"Shut up."

The horses clopped closer and as they did so, Mercedes frowned. She focused on the alleys between the warehouses rising into view and an unfocused feeling of trepidation began to seep through her body the same way the rain was dampening her shirt and the tops of her thighs. She began to pick out other, familiar features of the warehouses – high windows, unfinished double service doors, hatched basement entrances – and stopped Sabine. The others got a few more paces ahead before they realized, and turned.

"Everything all right, Boss?" Oliver asked.

"Yeah," Mercedes said before she was sure – not that she would have admitted otherwise. "It's just familiar is all."

Seeming to sense her discomfort, Oliver added, "We can come back when it's light if you think that's wiser."

"No," she said, and urged Sabine forward. "We're here now; it's a great opportunity. Well, if we find anything that is."

They hitched the horses to some of the fallen timber of the first warehouse nearby. Part of Mercedes regretted being in downtime, in a way, because to her knowledge they were unarmed except for the little knife she kept in her boot at all times nowadays. The trepidation that'd soaked her was gathering into a knot in her stomach, but she reminded herself that this was a mission and she needed to press on.

"Any idea what's here?" Baena asked quietly as they paced into the shadow of the alley, keeping an eye out for others.

"None. But I presume it's relevant," Mercedes whispered. "Let's find a way in."

Though they tried the doors, all around the building were locked. This surprised her a little – what could possibly need locking up in Trost, of all places, during its reconstruction? All the materials and tools were out in the open or in unsecured shelter; there shouldn't be anything left worth stealing and no one to do the stealing. They found what appeared to be the weakest of the hatches of the basement entrances, and Mercedes used her knife to break the lock.

When they finally were able to haul back one of the double doors, sending flakes of paint showering over their shoes and shins and revealing the first of a ladder rung at the top of the dark hole, Mercedes realized what she was looking at. She froze.

"I've been here before," she whispered.

"You have?" Fhalz squinted.

Mercedes didn't answer.

Again, Oliver suggested, "We don't have to go in."

"I think we do." She breathed in deeply, trying to still the rippling of her blood in her veins. "Besides, it's just a building. It wasn't the building that hurt me."

"Oh, 'Cee –" Baena intoned. She fell quiet when Mercedes raised her hand.

Mercedes made her way down the ladder into the darkness. She was back to moving solo through a cloud of her own thoughts that leaked out of her pores and into the real world. She was going down that staircase into her paranoia, into where it all began. She felt like there were a million rungs and the distance between her and her squad stretching ever wider though logically – and from memory – she knew there were only a few, and when her feet met the floor, her squad was right behind her.

The space was pitch-black except for the small patch above them – more of a tonal difference than actual light that dropped rain onto their heads – and the four of them pressed their backs against one another, breathing together, adjusting their eyes together, reaching out their arms as one and taking a simultaneous cautious step forward to ascertain their surroundings.

"This way," whispered Oliver. "There's a path." He let Mercedes take the lead and brought up the rear, though Mercedes knew that Baena and Fhalz would seek the earliest opportunity to fan out a little and make their shape a diamond like they always did.

They crept forward. Around them were canvas-covered piles of who knew what, and judging by the sound of their feet the ceiling was low. There was a closed single door at the end of the path that seemed to have been cleared for them and when they reached it, Mercedes paused.

"Do you think there's anyone home?" murmured Fhalz at her shoulder.

"I don't hear anyone yet," she said. "But nevertheless – are any of you armed?"

"You gave us all matching knives, remember," Baena said. "So we'd have claws." Mercedes heard her light huff of laughter.

"Good. Keep on your toes. We're just here to look around. But the last time I was here… I'm interested to see how this could possibly be linked. Part of me also wonders if it isn't, and I've been set up. I hope I'm wrong." Her fingertips rested on the door handle. "Keep to our walking pattern."

Mercedes quietly opened the door. This next space was far more open and she felt a similarly-sized space open up inside her chest cavity as the memory became far more raw. The darkness inside it was lit at the far right end by a furnace, its mouth open and gleaming and turning the two rows of six support posts into ribs. Chains hung from girders between them. Piles of large crates and empty grain sacks had been pushed to their side of the room and made it difficult to make out much else other than how clear it was they'd have to go into the middle of the room in order to see anything. Judging by the fire someone was here but far more alarming was the incredibly potent smell of blood.

Mercedes drew ahead, followed by Fhalz, then Baena, then Oliver, who closed the door behind him. She paused at the end of the aisle and did not need to hold up her hand to stop the others in their tracks. She crouched and they mirrored her. Carefully, she peered around the corner.

There was a pile of a dozen or so bodies in the center of the room; six others hung from the chains on hooks. It took her a moment to realize that some of them were children. She felt nauseous, but took another moment to confirm that there was no one else around.

She drew back her head and let it fall against the crate next to her, taking a couple of calming breaths. Her hand pressed to her mouth.

"What is it?" Fhalz asked.

"There's some children's bodies out there. It seems like it's a lure – for us, or someone else, I don't know. I'll go out there – the three of you stay here for right now. If I signal, only move one at a time in whatever way you think best."

Mercedes rose to her feet and emerged into the space beyond, and trotted toward the pile that stood between her and the light all while looking around her for whomever had done this. She immediately rounded the pile to get to the side with more light and her boots smacked as they dropped and lifted through the tacky puddle of blood. The brassy smell – so different, and lingering, from Titan blood – made her want to wretch.

The cart – the cart was on the other side. The two-wheeled, flat-bed cart that she'd been tied to those years ago, stained brown, pink and red all over, the ropes dangling at its four corners even darker. One knot had apparently been too stubborn to bother with – a hand, severed partway down the forearm complete with a brown cuff from a coat, hung off the edge and buzzed with a couple of flies.

 _Concentrate,_ Mercedes urged herself. _There's a reason you're here. You wouldn't have been sent alone if Pixis knew this was what you'd find._

Judging by the smudges from the cart to the furnace, she guessed that for some reason some bodies had been incinerated while others had been dumped on the pile. She scanned the pile – mutilated civilians of varying ages and fineness of clothing – and then the six individuals hung from the chains – also civilians. Her eyes went next to the immediate area to look for instruments of torture, but there were none.

She looked back at the hand dangling from the cart and walked over to it. The flies sped away and circled back no matter how much she swatted. On closer inspection of the cuff she realized it was a military jacket and that the hand seemed to belong to an older male.

 _Sloppy enough to leave this, but methodical enough to take away the tools,_ she thought.

"Welcome back."

Mercedes felt as if she'd been whipped. She turned her head frantically to locate the voice that she still remembered after all these years even without a face or a name to it. One hand hovered over the edge of the cart, ready to pull her behind it for cover.

"Do you know why they call you the rotten warden?" the male voice continued. It slithered through the bodies as though it spilt from their mouths, floated around the room. "Killing one's own father…letting in a Titan to melt our gates and release a horde on our lands, only to be defended for it, only to deny the fault. And they uphold you, reward you. You're as corrupt as the regime they say you helped topple."

Mercedes realized her squad couldn't see her from this angle. She paced slowly forward to the right side of the furnace. Her heartrate increased and the old wound at her shoulder throbbed.

"Personally, though, I think 'hollow warden' is more accurate. 'Rotten' implies there was something there to begin with to rot, and I'm fairly certain we took that away from you. Don't you remember?"

Mercedes came into the gap between the wall of crates and the pile, so she could been seen, and twitched three fingers down at the ground. A bullet whizzed by her hand and ricocheted off the concrete to impact itself in the crates and she froze.

"Calling them, are you?"

"Show yourself," she demanded.

"Are you back for more? We can finish the job, if you like."

As much as her body wanted to squirm at the pull on its memory, Mercedes shouted, "Are you deaf? Enough with the pageantry. Show yourself!"

"May as well ask your squad the same question."

Mercedes was surprised to see them bolt from their hiding place; they came out in the order she had left them in, alternating their speeds over the distance to mimic a jaguar's footfalls. At the same time, the shadows moved. Two came from one side of the furnace and she knew others were in the rafters and on top of the crates, but didn't have time to count. Her two attackers were dressed just as they were the day she had been grabbed, with grain sacks with eye holes pulled over their heads and dressed in dark colors with gloves.

Mercedes dodged a punch and followed it with a kick of her own that sent the first attacker into the second. She span on her heel and hunkered down, trying to assess them as they regrouped. Averagely-built males, as before, and unarmed. These were likely rough-housers; they weren't here to kill. And as she continued to dance away their blows she altered her own somewhat, realizing that these men had little to no combat training. Lackeys.

"Boss!" Oliver exclaimed, rounding the awful pile to join her.

"The others?" she asked, guarding his back as he did hers. Her two attackers had now split and were squaring off against them and the four of them circled.

"Dealing. They're coming."

She didn't like the unbalanced nature of their squad and had a feeling the opposition knew it. She and Oliver were physically the strongest and able to inflict the most damage, while Baena and Fhalz made up for their lack in agility and speed.

Another gunshot ricocheting from the floor.

"Sniper," Mercedes said. "But only one," she noted.

A moment later Fhalz was on top of the crates and running nimbly along them. Mercedes watched him duck from another gunshot.

Oliver caught a punch in his hand and then the second, retaliatory one; he cracked his skull into the attacker's and the man dropped immediately. Mercedes let the other attacker come at her, still crouched low, and let him use most of his weight to land himself on her fist in his stomach. Winded, he stumbled and she elbowed him between the shoulderblades, felling him. Quite frankly, she was a little disappointed. A stamp to knock his head against the ground had him out cold, and in the same movement she and Oliver were rounding the pile again to find Baena.

The taller girl was exchanging quick, acrobatic blows with two attackers. One had a rifle and Baena seemed focused on not letting him use it. Two other bodies were nearby and, knowing her squad, Mercedes was fairly sure they were only unconscious.

"Always have a squad to do your dirty work, eh?" the voice rang out again. It had a certain gravel to it that Mercedes detested.

"They're trying to rile you," Oliver said. He was twitching this way and that, trying to find the best way to take out one of Baena's adversaries.

There was a huge crashing sound and another gunshot, and everyone on the ground froze. Fhalz cried out. Part of the pile of crates had collapsed, sending dust as well as their contents scattering over the ground.

"Fhalz!" Baena shouted.

Her attackers came alive again. One awkwardly smashed the rifle into Baena's face and she yelped unnaturally, stumbling; Oliver growled and retaliated for her by grabbing him and slamming him into the ground – before Mercedes could caution him, he had brought his foot down on the man's neck with a sickening crunch. She had a moment to see the instantaneous look of shock and regret on his face before she pivoted and jumped, slamming both of her heels in quick succession into the second attacker's head. He collapsed and crawled backward, and in following him Mercedes saw the sniper emerging from the rubble with Fhalz in tow.

There was laughter. "And now you've murdered someone. Well done!"

Mercedes glanced back at Oliver and held up a hand at his look of panic. Her gaze then went to Baena, who was clutching her eye and moaning more than she thought normal for a blow of that nature. Oliver seemed to anticipate her and crouched by Baena, leaving Mercedes free to take a step toward Fhalz.

"I suggest you stay put."

Mercedes realized the voice was no longer omnipresent, and watched as another sack-masked man, a little taller this time, emerged from the same route they'd taken in. He had a confident swing to his step as he joined his partner; Fhalz, held up by his arm, wasn't struggling. In fact, he was dragging a leg behind him and as they emerged into what little light there was, Mercedes saw the bloody bone sticking through his trousers.

"We'll be taking this one," said the man as he gestured at Fhalz. "For insurance purposes."

"Insurance?"

"Cease your investigations. Or there will be more bodies, including his." The man brought a pistol out of his belt and Mercedes squinted at it in interest, not knowing anyone who had one. She logged the clue for later. He cocked it and held it to Fhalz's head. "Go, now, else he's dead already. And if I hear that the alarm's been raised within the hour, same story."

"Fhalz!" Baena screamed again.

"Don't do it, 'Cee," Fhalz raised his voice and it quavered with pain. "Baena – it'll be all right."

Mercedes' body heaved with every breath, itching to get to her teammate, and she could feel the same energy from Oliver and Baena behind her. "What 'investigations'? Throwing empty threats at us is meaningless."

"Is it?" The muzzle of the gun was pressed to Fhalz's temple. "You know what we mean by 'investigations'. It's what brought you here."

Mercedes was silent but her brain was clamoring through everything it knew, assumed, and wanted to forget. She felt incapable of holding any of it, as though she was sifting through hot coals and shards of glass.

"You should get your squadmate to a hospital. Looks like she's about to lose an eye."

Mercedes risked a glance behind her and Oliver's concerned expression along with the blood trickling through the gap in Baena's fingers confirmed the man's words. Baena herself was on all fours, her good eye pinned on Fhalz.

"You weren't so indecisive when you were trying to avoid another cock in you – what's the matter? I thought you were good at making the hard decisions."

Mercedes flinched despite herself and snarled with resentment of how her spine grew rigid and a phantom pain settled between her hips.

"Don't speak to her that way," Fhalz said, and was promptly struck across the face with the pistol. He crashed to the ground.

In her periphery Mercedes saw Baena tug forward in Oliver's grasp and whimper a little. But Mercedes met Fhalz's eyes as he lifted his head. They held each other's gaze for a few moments until she was satisfied.

Mercedes took what she felt like her first breath in the last half an hour and it brought an iota of clarity. "Let's go."


	8. Chapter 8: Counterweight

**Chapter 8: Counterweight**

After instructing Oliver to take Baena to the nearest hospital, Mercedes had waited out of sight for the gang to emerge from the warehouse and make their retreat. She let a suitable distance gather between her and them, and had then begun to track them. Now she was watching them, above them, behind a solid stone railing atop a set of stairs leading to a church, as they met with a single covered wagon and more co-conspirators. Rain dripped from her hair and off her creased brow, jeweling her eyelashes, but her vision had never seemed clearer.

There were about a dozen of them at least and all of them were exchanging the shoddy grainsacks for nondescript polished gold-colored ones – the same one she'd found waiting for her in the Special Collections library as 'Article 20A' the day she'd nearly had to assassinate King Fritz – and they did so without giving her an opportunity to make out much of their appearance. She grew angrier by the minute, like as a too-young child when Julia had tried to teach her to play chess and grown frustrated at her lack of understanding. She felt like all the movements of some grander game – of which she was merely a playing piece, of what level she couldn't be sure – were being revealed to her in abstract only.

Fhalz was being dragged into the wagon; his leg hadn't even been bandaged much less splinted. She remembered all the times during their years in training when either of them had been injured; how they'd helped one another, been the one to cart the other to the medics when it got too bad, been the one to poke fun at the other and drive the other back to health. They'd been the ones crazy enough to make a game out of training themselves to be ambidextrous. He had been her first and most natural recruit into her squad; he was her oldest real friend. She'd be damned if she'd lose him now.

Her chin jutted forward a little and she couldn't control the scowl on her face. Mercedes pulled out the knife from its sheath in her left boot, and wrapped her fingers along its pale bone handle as though binding it to every muscle in her body with the individual curl of each finger. She kissed the inwardly-curving spine and prepared to leap over the railing.

Hands grabbed under her arms and wrenched her backwards. She and the other person fell unceremoniously to one side on the wet flagstones. Mercedes growled and a gloved hand clapped over her mouth; with a flick of her wrist her knife was being held in reverse and she prepared to strike behind her.

"Carello!" a male voice hissed at her ear. There was a certain plea to it that gave her pause. "Stand down. _Sub rosa, spina_."

Mercedes halted her knife and for a moment they lay there, their damp clothes warming briefly where they were pressed together. She remembered the Latin from the back of the medal she still kept on her. Carefully, she rolled onto one forearm and her knees, wielding the claw-like knife in front of her to keep the man still until she was settled. Raindrops pinged onto the gold, androgynous mask he wore. Its ribbons were tied over a dark hood in much the same way as the others were, and this combined with the Latin made her feel like she was tracking a cult.

Shortly, the man raised his mask over his dark hair, and she recognized him as Gustav, Pixis' other aide normally alongside Anka. His dark brown eyes were narrowed at her in exasperation.

Mercedes sneered. "Why are you here?" Was he really one of them? Her knife ticked a little in his direction and he held up a placating hand despite not seeming at all concerned by it.

"Did you really think you were the only one tasked to your mission?" Gustav whispered. "More to the point – don't go barreling down there. You'll jeopardize everything. You need to retreat. I have successfully infiltrated their ranks and will keep an eye on your squadmate. We'll gain nothing if you start a slaughter – though I can't guarantee you'd be able to finish it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"The ones you met in the warehouse were just lackeys. These aren't, and there are more of them."

"I don't care," she growled into his face and rose onto her feet, preparing to stand.

He jerked her back down by her arm. "But I do. I won't have you risk this."

"You're not my superior."

Gustav's voice remained stern, "No, but don't think you can just do what you want now you've been given a medal to use. We need to work as a team. _I_ need to continue this. _You_ need to report on the pile they still left in the warehouse, and learn what you can as quickly as they can before they get the word out that you've run into them. They'll be watching your movements from now on and if they don't like them, I don't know what they'll do to Fhalz. That's while they spread more rumors and encourage the public against you."

"And who are 'they'?"

"Every member constantly wears some kind of mask that's making it difficult for me to pinpoint their identities. But they call themselves 'the Couriers', and they want to kidnap Annie Leonhardt to return her to some place called the Delta Village in exchange for some kind of amnesty." The tumultuous confusion must have shown on her face because Gustav said, "I don't have time to answer all your questions right now. They'll be leaving soon to go to the river and from there, Sina, I think. To someone called Baldev." At her suddenly-alert expression he added, " _Don't follow_." He released her arm and pulled his mask back down. "I won't be able to risk my cover to stop your rashness a second time."

Mercedes remained crouched as Gustav stood and hurried down the stairs. She pressed herself against the railing and listened intently as he assured the other Couriers that all was clear. There was a snap of reins and the sound of cart wheels over cobbles, and Mercedes squeezed her eyes shut. She listened to it a few moments more, taking the sound in like the rain on her lips by folding them inside her mouth and letting it dissipate under her tongue into her bloodstream. Then with a quick dalliance of its tip over the top of her wrist, where her glove didn't reach, she drew a crescent into her skin to draw a little blood, then cleaned and sheathed her knife. She breathed out, the guilt repressed, and lurched to her feet to run in front of the church in the opposite direction of the Couriers.

 _I'm sorry, Fhalz. We'll be quick, I promise._

The run – the pounding of her feet and the stretching and constricting of her muscles and the rush of the air in and out of her lungs – felt good. She kept running. Rain streaked her bare arms and neck. She kept running. The slopes and turns, even the streets themselves, seemed to streamline for her; she even closed her eyes for a time. She bared her teeth to the night and the rain tapped against them like a fingernail. Still she ran. All of the information and conflicting emotions that'd been tangling in her skull seemed to organize and draw themselves out the faster she went, as though something anchored them at one end and she held the other, their ribbons and threads and chains and garlands of handwriting becoming mere parallel lines that she could come back to study and follow. She kept running.

Suddenly stumbling upon Trost's makeshift military hospital was like running out of those lines; Mercedes jerked to a halt and practically fell onto the porch-like single, wide step in front of half of the building. She gasped for breath there on her hands and knees for a minute or two, feeling the rain quench some of the fire she'd sparked in her muscles and in the process, realizing she must have run a longer distance than she first thought. But images of Baena clutching at her eye were back in her brain, dragging her to her feet.

The night orderly looked startled at Mercedes' arrival in the main hall. "Squad Leader Carello," he said, apparently for lack of anything else coming to mind.

Between breaths, she said, "Where's Cullis?"

"This way."

On their trek down the hall Mercedes wondered how long she'd been gone – thoughts of vengeance had sapped her concept of time. Would Baena be in surgery at this point? Was it required? Was it too late? She nearly walked faster than the orderly, impatient to get from one patch of light given off by the sconces to the next.

When they turned into one of the bare-bones wards, all but one of the eight beds empty, Mercedes stopped in her tracks. Rico's barely-contained lividness was already levelled at her, darkening the burn scar on her otherwise pale face. She stood at the end of Baena's bed, rigid and scowling. The orderly was gone in the time it took Mercedes to take a steadying breath.

Mercedes tore her gaze away from Rico's, looking around her to where Baena sat up in bed, gauze strapping several layers of cotton pads against her right eye. Oliver sat next to the bed holding her hand.

"Well?" Rico growled. Her arms were folded over the gray T-shirt she wore and Mercedes got the distinct impression that it was the only thing that kept her from lashing out.

Mercedes tenderly made her way past Rico to Oliver and Baena's sides.

"Answer me," Rico barked, making Mercedes jump.

Mercedes completed her small journey, steeling herself, and squeezed Baena's arm. She could see the blonde had been crying by the puffiness of her good eye and the glossiness of the skin under it, her matted eyelashes, but still Baena managed a fraction of a smile and it gave Mercedes a little courage to turn back to Rico. "I'm sorry."

"I don't know why you're apologizing. I'm not your superior anymore. But as your comrade, I have to say I'm disappointed in your carelessness," she spat.

Mercedes wondered what, if anything, Baena and Oliver had told her. She looked at her hand, at the crescent of blood she'd given herself smeared by the rain and the run until it was just a watercolor blot, and thought of the clues she'd held in her hands like rope only minutes earlier. Her heartbeat was refusing to quell.

"Tomorrow you were due for a promotion. All of you," Rico continued. "You were supposed to represent order and what's good about the Garrison. Instead, you brawl with thugs, and get one of your squad members not only a broken leg but _kidnapped_ , while another loses an eye."

A sob broke out of Baena like a caged thing and part of Mercedes died in hearing it.

"Then you run off to try to get him back and return empty-handed. And Oliver tells me a thug was killed during all this? Possibly more on your little personal vengeance run? So you've murdered as well." Rico's voice briefly dropped, "I don't know what kind of reason you think justifies all of this. I am ashamed to be brought out here in the middle of the night to deal with yet another mess brought about by your cavalier attitude to your duties. Ashamed! You deserve all the nicknames they're throwing at you."

Mercedes squared her jaw, trying not to take in her mentor's words. She began slowly, "I was given orders by –"

"I couldn't care less!" Rico practically screeched. "Did you forget that you're still a Garrison soldier? There's no special 'Jaguar Squad' division just for you. Whatever unusual treatment you're getting is doing the opposite of earning you a noble reputation – it's spoiling whatever potential you had and worse, you're dragging your squadmates into that mire. Secret missions and private agendas lead to nothing but corruption – not only are you feeding it in others but you're becoming part of it yourself at a time when we need self-sacrifice and care for the common good the most. I was wrong to ever think you interested in that."

Mercedes let a few beats of silence fall. She didn't meet Rico's eye initially. The rain worsened, pounding on the roof, and there was a grumble of thunder. Rico turned to go.

"There was a pile of civilian bodies. Including children," Mercedes said quietly and it stopped Rico in her tracks.

"'Bodies'?"

"I think they incinerated others, including at least one member of military personnel. An hour has past, so it should be safe to raise the alarm without fear of them doing anything to Fhalz."

There was another moment of silence, and then Rico took a deep breath and said, "The three of you stay here. The whole night. I'll report it," as she drifted out of the ward.

* * *

 **A Note from the Author:** Thank you so INCREDIBLY MUCH to those of you who have kindly taken the time to read, review, follow or favorite. I hope you're enjoying this (weird though that is to say)!


	9. Chapter 9: Siege Warfare

**Chapter 9: Siege Warfare**

"Did you see Fhalz?" Baena's faint voice trickled into the quiet, barely louder than the rain outside.

"I did," Mercedes admitted just as quietly. She finally forced herself to turn back to Baena, and look at her. She wasn't sure what was worse to focus on – the gauze and cotton settled just a little too deep for there to be much behind them, or the pleading, red-rimmed green and blue that remained. "He's all right," she said.

"But it wasn't safe to retrieve him," Baena added for her.

"No." Mercedes sat down on the bed by Baena's knees as the feeling of defeat settled back on her. The three of them huddled close, sharing the shock and the anxiousness until Mercedes could see how all their hands shook.

"I understand," Baena said. "And you're right – he's okay. He's going to be okay. He told me so."

Mercedes felt a sob balling itself in her throat. "How can you be so forgiving?" the whisper burst out of her and she trembled from it; maybe she _was_ as hollow as the Courier leader had jibed.

She heard Baena shift in bed, and looked up to see her roll onto her side so she could grip Mercedes' hand as well as Oliver's. She still had the small smile on her face. "I'm the oldest of six siblings. Growing up like we did, if I held on to everything wrong they did I'd have gone crazy – well, -er. Crazy-er. And now I have the three of you." Her hand released Mercedes' and stroked down the side of her face through her wet hair affectionately, "That's what I keep trying to tell you, sweetie. It doesn't do any good to hold on to what's past. We'll never know _exactly_ who did those terrible things to you that night, so are we going to kill everyone? I can't get my eye back, and yes, that pains me _so much_ on _so many_ levels, but I'm not going to take anyone else's. I would much rather aspire to our original calling, before any of this ever started – to serve and to protect, and to nurture the harmony so many people need yet only a few are able to sow."

Mercedes folded her body until her head rested on Baena's lap. She could feel tears gathering in her eyes and siphoning more from the back of her throat.

"Do you remember what that was like, 'Cee?" Baena murmured.

Barely. So barely. It was so distant that it wasn't even a scar. It'd been buried under so much bitterness and pain and lust for revenge and anger that Mercedes wasn't sure she consisted of anything else. No wonder Jean had shouted that he didn't know who she was anymore. The girl who'd gone off to training…the one who'd joined because of the same ideals her friend spoke of now… Had that really been her? "Barely," Mercedes croaked into the blankets.

"But you do. That's part of why you chose us," Baena continued, her voice still soft and melodic. "You told me so. And that's part of what drew you to Jean – you admired his reluctance to harm others – you told me that, too."

"I did. It does."

"You can get back to that. You can change. I believe it."

The difference between who she had been and who she'd become struck at her heart like a bullet, but more than the guilt, more than everything that was repressed, was a brief flash of fear that she snatched out of sight before they could see it – a fear of what would be left of her should she change. She didn't think she wanted to know what she would look like with color, or bones. Would she, like a Titan with a cut nape, dissipate into nothing?

But that…that was a fear for a more selfish time. She had to keep going.

Baena seemed to detect the fear without seeing it. "So, then. How about we compromise between what Rico said – because she's right, in a way – and what we have to do," she concluded. "Let's go over what we saw, and what's our next move, hmm?"

Mercedes laid there for a few moments more, sniffling, composing herself. Oliver reached out and rubbed her back and the warmth from his palm soothed her aches. When she finally sat up she felt a little dizzy, and breathed deep a couple of times. "Am I allowed to say I'm sorry, first?"

"If it makes you feel better."

"It does. I'm so sorry I dragged you all into this. See why I didn't want to get you involved?"

"We were going to get involved anyway, 'Cee," said Oliver, withdrawing his hand. "Isn't it better that we did it with your agreement?"

She sighed and gave him a half-hearted glare.

"And we've always known being in your squad was never going to be normal, or pretty," Baena said. She stared off into the room to think to herself. Her eyebrow quirked, "Or safe and legal, for that matter."

Mercedes' eyes dropped to her hands lying curled on her knees like dried leaves. Their squad's history passed through them like wind and they turned over in response. "I'd thought it'd be different. Honestly."

"It is what it is," Oliver said with a smile. "So. What do we know?"

Mercedes swallowed on a dry throat. "That was the same warehouse where I was…interrogated, when I was sixteen. Judging by what was said, it's the same people. Back then they were asking me who and where were the Titan-shifters – I didn't know anything about it at the time – and now here they are, seemingly linked to a plot to kidnap one of them. Of course, we don't know if they're behind it or simply invested in it – either way, they don't want us poking around."

"Any idea who 'they' are?" Baena asked softly. She pushed herself further upright against her pillows and tugged at the collar of the hospital shift she'd been put in.

The image of Gustav pushing up the gold mask… The memory of an identical one sitting on its bed of velvet in the library, only to be plucked up and placed over her own face… Mercedes blinked a few times. "I was about to rush in to get Fhalz and Gustav, Pixis' aide, stopped me. He's infiltrated that gang – apparently he's been tasked with investigating the plot too. He said they call themselves 'the Couriers' but hasn't been able to find out individual identities. When they're not wearing grain sacks they wear plain gold masks – the weird part is that Zackly directed me to a mask just like it in the Special Collection in the library in Mitras. I wore it when I was ready to kill King Fritz. So something else is going on with them, there. I don't know who they are though."

"The main guy had a pistol," Oliver offered. "I haven't seen one of those outside a book Fhalz showed me. You'd have to be well-connected or wealthy to have one if they're even allowed. Definitely not standard."

"And Gustav said that those we encountered in the warehouse were just lackeys with no real combat training, but he stopped me because the ones loading Fhalz into a wagon were better," Mercedes said. "So they're organized, and presumably well-supplied. He said they were going to my uncle, Baldev. I don't think it's far-fetched to say that he's helping them."

"But why murder civilians, and why hasn't the Garrison heard of people going missing? Of children going missing. And military personnel," Baena said. "It doesn't make any sense."

Mercedes resettled to think. Baena raised her legs so that Mercedes could bring her own onto the bed and sit cross-legged. She bowed forward, her arms braced on her knees, and let her wet hair fall over her shoulders to paint chocolatey waterlines on the light brown of her pants. Maybe her heartbeat would move those little brushes and write the answer she felt she knew but couldn't fully grasp.

"Boss, I don't know if this matters, but: two things," Oliver began. He waited until Mercedes' eyes met his before continuing. "I know you noticed how you and I got the clumsy thugs, while Baena and Fhalz seemed to be targeted by the more skilled members of the group. If they're as organized as they apparently are, and seem to know about us, then surely they could have targeted us better. They would've matched their strongest people with our strongest people. I would think, anyway…"

Mercedes managed an encouraging smile and nod at him. "Good point. We had punching bags thrown at us while Fhalz and Baena got the worst of it." Her smile faded into a frown as she remembered something else. "Unless they wanted to avoid us – didn't want to risk it for whatever reason. And the only reason I could think would be…do you still have them, Ol'?"

Oliver's deep brown eyes had widened gradually in concern and his heavy brow was drawing down, mimicking her own. He nodded, "Of course," and his body unfolded in the chair; he lifted the hem of his shirt to reveal her father's belt with the two hard cases. Their animal-tooth toggles remained secure. He let his shirt drop.

"You think they know you kept the serums you father had?" Baena whispered into her raised knees.

Mercedes distantly shook her head. "It's possible. They may even have thought we'd used one and that Oliver and I would be our best bet, so they didn't want to harm us – just keep us busy until they could get either you or Fhalz as a hostage. But I think it's likelier that they didn't want to risk breaking the serums and figured that either me or Oliver would have been the one to keep them on our person."

"We're getting predictable," Baena said.

Mercedes didn't contest it.

"And the other thing," Oliver continued, "is the content of that warehouse. Not only were they successfully piling – and burning – bodies there, but they were stockpiling."

"'Stockpiling'?" Mercedes rubbed at her eyes.

"Yeah. A lot of those crates that were broken contained food, ammunition, medicine. There were even water barrels and lamp oil. And it didn't look like it was packed for a journey, either – more like an emergency store you'd keep in a basement if you needed to shore up for a really long time."

Mercedes shivered, though she wasn't sure why. She also wasn't sure what made it creep to mind, but she raised her eyes to Oliver's and asked, "Did you see any tools?"

"What?" Baena and Oliver asked at practically the same time.

"Did you see any tools – rope, shovels, axes, that kind of thing?"

"No. Why?"

"Something just tells me that if I needed to shore up, potentially against the rest of what remains of the world and potentially with a kidnapped Titan-shifter, I'd want to be have everything I could possibly need. Particularly…if I thought something really shitty was going to happen that meant I wouldn't be able to go outside."

The three of them shifted uncomfortably and glanced at one another.

"But they wouldn't keep it all in the same place at first, reasonably," Baena suggested. "So that must mean there's at least a second repository – if that's what they're really doing it must be a young plan and they can't have collected everything already."

"How does your uncle figure in to all this?" Oliver asked.

"He's an MP," Baena answered for her. "He must be helping supply them while things are a little crazy with the transition. Not to mention he may know where Annie's being kept if not the guard shifts and so on. He could be facilitating everything."

They hushed their voices as the night orderly passed in the hall on his way to another ward. Mercedes almost wanted to throw herself into the bed and pretend to be sleeping, like in childhood when Julia would chastise her for staying up too late, or in training when Shadis or Carlstedt-Gaus would come to check on them. It made her remember the night she'd snuck out on Mina and Sasha's dare, having memorized the check-in rotations, and her interrogation in the warehouse. She thought again of the blood-stained two-wheeled cart, the pile of bodies.

"I think…" she moistened her lips, paused, and started again, "I didn't really recognize any of the bodies, but I think that they were tortured and killed for the same reason I was. They're looking for more shifters; if they're after Annie…then for some reason they want to collect them all together. And if they're preparing for a siege…then that means something would have to be happening outside – or rather, inside the Walls, and they'd have their own mini-fortress somewhere." Her eyes traveled the furrows in the blankets between her and Baena. "They may have been watching us not only because they knew I – and you by association – would be tasked with investigating, but because we have more serums."

"A riot?" Baena suggested in a whisper. "Even if most people like Historia, there has to still be some old-government sympathizers. They'd just need a good figurehead and a good reason."

Mercedes felt her brow sinking ever-lower; her good hand pinched the bandages around the cuts from the hammer she'd caught. "Something like that. Maybe they want us all to kill each other to save them the effort, since Shiganshina will be resealed soon. Or maybe they want to force our hand – make us, as in the military – confirm we have more serums, use them, and insodoing start a shifter war. Eren's away, as is the Scouting Legion; who knows about the Armored, Colossal or Dancing Titans; and Marco…Marco's not coming back. They'd have Annie. We'd have a shattered army, a young Queen in the shadow of a military power, and civilians – and personally, I don't place much stock in civilians' ability to be rational."

There were a few long moments of heavy silence. Mercedes felt squeamish. Her body was begging to sleep, to shut it all out for a few hours, but she also was afraid to. Already she wanted to board up the windows and protect her squad, keep investigating, contact Pixis, but now it seemed the walls had ears and eyes and any moment now the streets outside would be filled with a bloodlust far crueler than that of Titans, and with much more _intent_.

"Boss."

Mercedes hummed and looked at Oliver. He looked as uncomfortable as she felt; his hands settled over the pouches under his shirt.

"I think we should do something with these."


	10. Chapter 10: Captives

**Chapter 10: Captives**

Fhalz had been secured in the back of the covered wagon, broken leg and all, and the mouth of it closed with a tarp. He'd tried his best to memorize the turns and the terrain but the pain had made him black out fifteen minutes in. When he woke, he realized he'd been dumped unceremoniously on the floor of what was likely a basement, judging by the lack of windows and the staircase directly in front of him. He was alone apart from the warm plank of bright light and rabble of voices cascading down the stairs.

He groaned as he sat up. The first thing he noticed was that he was unrestrained, and the reason why quickly became apparent: looking down his body to his right leg, he was dismayed to find that they'd done nothing with it – the entire lower half of the trouser leg was stiff and dark red and he could feel every thread that snagged on the jagged end of the bone that'd broken through. It was enough to make him heave to one side and vomit. Though his vision swam he tried to focus and gather what information he could.

To start, he reached a hand around to the back of his belt beneath his loose navy blue shirt. Though the sheath remained, they'd taken the knife Mercedes had given him.

 _Well shit,_ he thought. _All right, come on, you've got to take care of your leg._

He scanned the room in search of potential bandages and splint candidates, in the process noting the honey-colored stone and precise beamwork, the two sconces on each wall of the twenty by ten foot space – the overall dryness and cleanliness suggesting that this wasn't located in a poorer establishment. However, the room was ridiculously empty.

"Fuck," he grumbled, briefly arching his head back and closing his eyes.

"…anyone have medical training?" he heard someone say upstairs, and he perked up.

"I do."

"Should we set his leg?"

"…may be better to leave it. Can't run that way."

Even moving a little hurt. Fhalz grit his teeth. There was no denying that he was helpless right now. It was hard to imagine that only a few hours ago – or was it days at this point? He couldn't tell – he and the others were enjoying cider. He still had the taste of bitter apples in his mouth.

 _Stop it. You still have your brain,_ he reined himself in. _They're clearly not that well-organized if they don't know who among them has medical training…_

The voices surged onto another topic and there were so many speaking at once that it was difficult to pick out exact words. In the fog of noise, he saw a shadow cast down the stairs and footsteps pushed it farther downward. Fhalz wanted to rise onto his haunches and his frustration was amplified when he couldn't; in its place he leveled a steely glare at the mouth of the stairs.

The figure that approached him was, like so many, wearing the nondescript, gold-painted mask tied in place over a dark hood that fell into a short cape over the shoulders. Fhalz took a moment to identify the figure as male and a little taller than the others he'd seen, but not of the same build as the ringleader from the warehouse that'd hit him with the pistol. In the warmth of the room all the covering-up with cloaks and masks and gloves didn't make much sense to him unless member anonymity was a priority even at a base – if that's what this truly was.

To his surprise, though, the man looked behind him at the stairwell and then crouched next to him. "I'll see what I can do," he said quietly. "Just hang on a little longer."

Fhalz rolled his eyes despite himself. "I'm not going to die – it just fucking hurts." The complaint spent, he squinted at one of the dark eyes looking at him through the mask. "Why help me? Thought common consensus was to let my leg rot off?"

"I'm on your side," the man whispered. "I can't tell you more than that."

Fhalz bit down on his scathing reply. Instead, he forced himself to say, "Then thank you."

Another pair of footsteps clumped down the stairs and the man rapidly stood and took a couple of steps back. Fhalz turned and his eyes immediately spotted the pistol in its holster. He grit his teeth.

"Awake, I see," came the voice of the ringleader, muffled behind his mask.

"And still full of theatrics, _I_ see," Fhalz retorted.

Without breaking stride the ringleader walked straight over to Fhalz, planted the sole of his boot on the nub of broken done sticking out of Fhalz's leg, and leaned on it just enough to cause Fhalz to scream and thrash violently. He fell into the cold vomit he'd produced earlier and heaved up another retching round. The boot was withdrawn.

"I'm sorry, did you say something about theatrics?"

The new pain was blinding and hot, like a branding iron, and Fhalz fought to control it. _Stop it – use your brain – gather what clues you can – focus,_ he repeated to himself. _This is what 'Cee trained you to do._ Through his watery eyes he looked past the pool of vomit to the ringleader's boots. _Good quality leather._ He glanced up, his gaze wavering as he weakly sought a hand. _The gloves too, and there's a bulge for a large ring. So the pistol may very well be his, not just stolen. This could be his house._

"Don't worry, we'll only keep you as long as you're useful," the ringleader continued. "Sadly you don't have any control over what that means. That'll be up to your superiors."

Fhalz coughed a couple of times and more stings of pain shot through his body. Spittle caught in his disheveled hair.

"Oh, what's this?" Fhalz flinched as the ringleader crouched beside him and reached forward, plucking the simple gold ring strung on its leather cord and holding it up to inspect. "Engraved, too. Looks serious. Don't tell me it's your future wife we pierced the eye of? Sorry about that."

The pain and the nausea was swept away by anger. Fhalz grimaced, his stare darting between the ring he'd saved the last year for and purchased only that morning – or was it yesterday morning, by this point? – and the matching gold mask of his captor. It must have slipped out of his shirt during his transportation. He'd barely had it a day. "You'll pay for that," he growled.

The ringleader jerked the cord and it cut into the back of Fhalz's neck until it broke. The ring was shoved, cord and all, into a pocket. "I'll be holding onto that for insurance. Make sure that little brain of yours doesn't come up with something stupid. Heh, insurance policy for the insurance policy." He stood.

Fhalz took the opportunity to look at the pistol on the ringleader's right hip. Although its holster concealed most of it, Fhalz could see that it had a familiar flintlock firing mechanism and was certainly not a new weapon – its silver was tarnished and wood scarred and unpolished – while the holster seemed to be fresh from the tannery.

 _Right-handed. The pistol could have been found or stolen, either way it's not been used or taken care of – at least not yet – and the holster was made for it recently. All the pistols I've seen to date have been decorated in brass._

Another pair of footsteps, another disguised body joining them in the basement. "Sir, we've heard word of senior members of the Garrison arriving at the repository," he reported.

"Well, it's been over an hour – the Carello girl kept her word."

"But the supplies –"

The ringleader held up a hand to silence him. "It'll be taken care of. We have to stay focused."

"Should we report the loss to the Merchant?"

Fhalz frowned. _'The Merchant'? Is that their boss, or just another member?_ He thought of the crates collapsing under his feet, how he'd fallen into a pile of canned and dry goods and how absurd it'd felt to bleed all over some rice. They were stockpiling, but it wasn't their main aim. What was, then? He thought again of what Mercedes had told them, and of the pile of bodies and the children hanging from the rafters.

Behind him, his mysterious ally shifted feet and reminded Fhalz of his presence. Fhalz knew he needed to keep gathering information as best he could, no matter the consequences. Even if he couldn't communicate it to Mercedes or anyone on the outside himself, his ally might be in a position to.

"Who were you burning, and why?" Fhalz muttered.

The ringleader turned to face him, and folded his arms and tipped his head as though amused. "Come now, I would've thought that'd be the more obvious thing." He paused. "Apparently not. How about a trade, then. If I answer your question, you answer one of mine. Though I don't know what exactly you think you'll be able to do with the information once you have it."

He resisted shrugging to himself. "Fine," he said. After all, there was likely very little he knew that would be useful to these people, whoever they were.

"The corpses you saw belonged to those we suspected to know the whereabouts of – or be – Titan-shifters. Clearly we couldn't let them walk when they proved useless, you understand. I thought you would have known that – after all, that's what we hunted down your squad leader for originally."

"Civilians, then."

"Mostly. And now my question." The ringleader took a couple of steps to one side, past the newcomer. "Why don't you tell us what else you were doing in Mitras other than picking up a pretty trinket?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Fhalz said without hesitation. He could barely remember what else he'd done that day other than spend a lot of money on a wedding ring and then get kidnapped.

"So you weren't suspicious of your squad leader's increasing distance, and you didn't hear rumors of your own? You didn't go to see Annie Leonhardt for yourself?" He paused and let the chill of the questions settle in. "What book was it that you looked in at the Special Collections Department in the Mitras Library?"

Fhalz squinted up at the mask. _He has to be bluffing – only the first two are true. But what is he trying to get me to reveal by denying them, or by dropping those clues?_

The ringleader stared at him a few moments more, during which Fhalz did not answer, and then turned back to the newcomer. "Inform the Merchant. We've done enough here for tonight." He walked away up the stairs.

* * *

Mercedes woke to the sound of Commander Woerman's reedy voice rattling down the hall – she heard her name, and those of her teammates. She groaned and wiped frantically at her face, squinting in the daylight that poured through the large window at the end of the ward; she had been curled on the floor on a corner of blanket that'd been dragged off Baena's bed, while Oliver had remained in the chair. She couldn't remember why they hadn't just crashed on the empty beds, but it was of little importance now. She scrambled to her feet and her joints protested. Oliver and Baena were waking up at the shouting, too.

"Where are they?" Woerman demanded, his voice very near.

Mercedes steeled herself, wiped drool off her face and rounded the bed to stand in front of her teammates. She felt Baena reach over and pull down the cuffs of her shorts just in time for their commanding officer to round the corner followed by a nervous-looking aide.

"Sir," she saluted, and heard the others do the same.

The hollows of his eyes seemed to her particularly intense today. He rapidly scanned the three of them and his expression did not approach tepid much less warm. "I've heard news of your disgraceful behavior in the last twenty-four hours." His voice was shrill and loud, as if he took everything that'd happened personally. "Consequently, I'm here to place you on indefinite suspension, effective immediately."

Mercedes felt her body flush and she bared her teeth; in the next section Baena had grabbed her hand and kept her from stepping forward.

Woerman was unmoved. He folded his arms. "You are to stay in this hospital until I deem otherwise. Obviously once Lathan is found the same applies to him. Is that clear?"

Mercedes squinted at him, her head twitching to one side, but Baena's hand squeezing hers kept her mouth shut.

"Yes, Sir," Oliver answered for them in a suitably solemn tone.

Woerman was shaking as he added, "Needless to say your promotion is hereby canceled! I find it difficult to convey how _outraged_ I am at your _incessant_ impunity and believe me I will make sure Commander Pixis hears of this if he hasn't already." His beady eyes darted between them once more and his hands fell to clench at his sides. He turned to go. "I advise you to think _extensively_ about your actions and how they affect your future with the Stationary Troops, if you hope to have one at all. Such irresponsibility will not be tolerated." He span on his heel and the aide dodged out of the way of his long stride away, down the hall.

Mercedes felt livid, as though her bones were now made of white-hot iron. She took a step forward, preparing a retort, but yet again Baena tugged on her. "No, 'Cee. It won't do any good. Don't." The hard footsteps echoed farther away until they were gone.

"It's the worst they can do right now," Oliver added lowly. "We'll just have to work around it, somehow."


	11. Chapter 11: The Twins

**Chapter 11: The Twins**

Mercedes settled back on her heels and breathed slowly in and out a couple of times; Baena let go. She turned around to face them, pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers, and squeezed her eyes shut. The initial spike of adrenaline was rapidly wearing off and being replaced by the fogginess of an interrupted dream and an abrupt awakening. There was crackling in her ears, like she'd slept through cannonfire but not been exempt from the effects. The idea of being cooped up in here…

There was a soft knock on the frame of the wide doorway to the ward. "Excuse us?"

Mercedes dropped her hand with a violent swing and turned once more to the doorway. She was taken aback when she saw her two twin cousins hovering at the doorframe. They smiled timidly at her but she remained frozen in shock, thinking back to only a few days ago when Jana had physically blocked them from coming to see her – what had changed, and why today of all days? Their tall figures – maybe even a little taller than their mother – were dressed in soft, pleasant shades of billowing peach and rose that complimented the chestnut-red hair that cascaded over their shoulders. One removed a wide-brimmed straw hat and the other pushed back a gossamer-thin pale green scarf. This close they were beautiful; it contrasted almost absurdly with the ugly, furious things Mercedes had thought only moments ago and it made her feel ungainly and embarrassed in comparison.

"Mercedes?" the one with the scarf asked, dipping her head.

Mercedes nodded, not sure what to say.

The twins looked at one another and smiled more broadly. They came fully into the room and Mercedes realized they carried a large covered wicker basket between them, which made them appear as though they were merely stopping by on their way to a picnic. It was set on the floor. She tried not to find it ridiculous in light of what had just happened to her and her squad.

"I'm Adrienne," said the one with the scarf.

"And I'm Marguerite," said the one with the hat. "We're your cousins. I'm sorry – it seems like we came at a bad time. We wanted to surprise you…" Marguerite looked behind her at the hall as if Woerman still stomped through it.

Mercedes wondered how much they'd heard, but tried to put it out of mind. The two in front of her were gentle-looking and likely wouldn't know how to deal with the fall-out from that. "Don't worry about it. I'm glad we finally get to meet," she said and tried to smile. "Again, that is. Properly." She thought about offering her hand but quickly decided they didn't seem the hand-shaking type. "Though I must admit I'm a little surprised. Your mother didn't seem too keen on it."

Marguerite slowly pulled her lips into her mouth to moisten them and demurely looked at the ground. Her voice was measured, "We're sorry about that, too. We wanted to speak to you that day, but…she's very protective. It's a good thing most of the time, you understand, but sometimes not."

"She doesn't know we're here," Adrienne added with a conspiratorial look to one side. She met Mercedes' gaze with a grin, raised her shoulders, and shook her head a little, "We just decided to come find you anyway!"

"You're glowing! How are you both fucking glowing?" came Baena's incredulous voice.

Mercedes looked over her shoulder. Both Baena and Oliver were staring wide-eyed at the twins.

"Are you saints or something? Am I dead?"

She heard the twins giggle, and she smirked. The room somehow felt lighter already. "This is Baena, and Oliver – two of my squadmates."

"Hello," the twins answered.

"Well, gather round, everyone," Baena croaked, holding out her arms to encompass the immediate area of the bed. Her legs flattened the terrain of the blanket as she pulled them to her.

Oliver immediately got up, stumbling a bit, to offer the chair. Marguerite smiled sweetly at him and took it, while Adrienne perched at the end of the bed.

"We're sorry about," Adrienne gestured at the doorway, "well, what happened. I'm afraid we heard. I'm sure it was unjust."

"You're so accomplished! I don't understand why _Maman_ didn't want us to talk to you," Marguerite added.

The compliment made Mercedes a little squeamish. She'd never thought of herself as accomplished, necessarily, and it had been hard to attribute anything positive to what she'd done over the past year or two. Considering her Aunt Jana's apparent scathing regard for her and her family, Mercedes wondered how Adrienne and Marguerite had managed to maintain such an open mind if not admiration for her.

This in mind, she answered, "I'm sure that's because she doesn't want you to be 'cursed' by your biological father's name – I still carry that name, like a disease, and maybe she feels you can catch it. As you heard, my accomplishments don't amount to much in the end and don't seem to do anyone any good."

She saw the twins' brown eyes widen and their eyebrows rise, and averted her own from them.

"Don't say things like that," Adrienne said. Her voice settled in the quiet of the room like snow, soft and enveloping. It was a mother's voice.

After a pause, Marguerite said, "It was _Maman_ 's idea for us to adopt our new _pére_ 's surname, Blanchet. We were five when _Papa_ – your uncle, Alejandro – died. We don't remember much of him, but we know enough to say with confidence that what has happened to that side of our family is misfortune, not a disease."

"We see enough of true disease in the soup kitchen," Adrienne added.

"And you and your friends…you're doing what you can to live in that shadow and remove it," Marguerite continued. She played with the white ribbon around the crown of her hat in her lap. "Of course there's going to be things done that others don't like. But do them anyway."

"Someone has to, otherwise no one knows to do any different," Adrienne said. "That's what we decided to do today: get dressed in our favorite clothes, and be bold. Because we have a right to, no matter what _Maman_ says." While Mercedes mulled over their words, Adrienne reached down and with Oliver's help, pulled up the basket and placed it on the bed. As she removed the blue handtowel that covered it, she said, "We wanted to bring you some things that we thought you might enjoy. It's not much, but."

"We could use some entertainment now that we'll be here for a while," Baena said.

Mercedes hovered beside her. Dominating the inside of the basket was a round, woven-lidded pie carrier the same buttery color as the twins' skin that emitted the smell of peaches, but her eye was drawn to what surrounded it: a couple of leatherbound notebooks, a wad of what looked like letters secured with twine, a little red drawstring bag, and – most interestingly of all – a flintlock pistol decorated with tarnished silver.

"What in the world am I looking at?" Mercedes asked with a frown. It seemed preposterous that her two doll-like cousins had toted a gun and a pie all the way from Karanese in a picnic basket.

"Pieces of our father," Adrienne said.

"That was his pistol?" Oliver asked, nodding at it. Mercedes was pleased that his mind seemed to be going the same place hers did.

Marguerite smiled sweetly at him again, her face lighting up even more at his interest. "It was, yes. It had a twin, but our brother took it a few months ago." Her expression grew briefly troubled, "We haven't seen him in a while – he never comes home anymore."

Mercedes took in a shaking breath. She hadn't got that good of a look at the pistol the ringleader of the Couriers had pointed at Fhalz, but she couldn't leave the possibility alone. "Do you remember the last time you saw him?" Her hand reached out and withdrew the pistol so that she could look it over, heft it in her hands. It was an unfamiliar weight compared to a rifle or a maneuvering gear blade. As with the rifle in the Special Collections room, the name 'Carello' had been carved into its dark wood handle.

"Like Marga said," Adrienne began, "It was maybe a few months ago. We saw him come home to collect another pair of boots and take the pistol – I remember it was a cold spring night because I made him take a blanket when he wouldn't listen to me and stay home." She paused and frowned, too. "What's wrong?"

 _What do I tell them?_ Mercedes wondered. They were looking at her imploringly, and the innocence of their expression set into what was very much their mother's face was jarring.

"Please, he's our brother," said Adrienne. "If he's in trouble we need to know."

Mercedes glanced at Oliver and Baena to gauge their opinion. Oliver's look of sympathy didn't lift, and Baena shrugged. A deferral to her, then. She missed Fhalz's unfettered caution – Oliver and Baena were the more mild-mannered and deferential of the four of them when it came to strategic choices.

"He might be; I'm not sure," Mercedes admitted quietly. "Please don't repeat this. My squad and I were…asked to work on something and things got a little out of hand, which is why our supervisor suspended us just now. But while we were doing that, we saw a pistol very much like this one." She waggled the gun in question. "They're rare to see, as I'm sure you know. But I've no way of knowing yet if it was a twin to this one."

"If you say Val might be in trouble…" Marguerite said. Her fingertips clenched her hat – a movement simultaneously delicate in its poise and aggressive in the way the pressure made her nail beds blanch. "Then what were you working on? What did you see?"

At Mercedes' reluctance to extrapolate, Adrienne said, "Please. We may be able to help. Let us help."

As though it committed her, Mercedes replaced the pistol in the basket. "I can't let you. You have no idea. I don't want to potentially put you in any danger."

Adrienne's face gradually settled into something of the sternness she remembered on Jana. "We already are – potentially – just by being here. Don't you think?" She shrugged, and her scarf fell off one shoulder. "May as well make it worth it."

Mercedes folded her arms and walked away from the group, wandering toward the bright morning light of the window at the other end of the short ward. She tried to compromise her old plan with these new potentials. There was a possibility that Adrienne was right, but it was also equally possible that she wasn't – and surely there was at least some small way to take advantage of that? She needn't tell them everything, and what with them working at The Blue Glass it was possible they may have inadvertently seen or heard something, particularly if their brother was working for them. While her squad's restricted movements reminded her that she didn't have too many options at her disposal, her cousins' earlier words about being bold regardless was supporting last night's plan to get out and hide the shifter serum vials if not continue to investigate.

"I do think I have something you can do," she said at length. "There's something I need you to hide." She turned to face them. "But I also have questions."

"We'll do our best," said Marguerite with a smile.


	12. Chapter 12: Faultlines

**Important note: Strikethrough not supported on here. Imagine what's underlined in the first section of this chapter to be struck-through.**

* * *

 **Chapter 12: Faultlines  
** _(Four days' ride from Shiganshina)_

One hand clutched an apple and weighted the corner of the page. Jean squinted at it; it was blinding in the sunshine. The wind threatened to snatch the page away even before time did the same – they'd only stopped to water the horses and had yet to reach their new base. He had only a few minutes. Absurd as it was, on the ride he'd thought he'd conjured what he wanted to say – by the time they'd hitched, it was gone. He was reduced to staring at all of the scratch-outs and fold creases and ink blots like a fool.

 _'Mercedes'_ it still read at the top.  
 _I wanted to write  
_ _I miss you. I'm sorry  
_ _The weather has been good for riding, mostly  
_ _I wish you were here  
_ _About Marco  
_ _There's too much to put in here, but  
_ _Do you remember the road?  
_ _You'll never guess  
_ _I'm sorry  
_ _I'm sorry._

He was halfway down the page at this point and had to concede that this had become the practice page. It was too embarrassing to go to Moblit for more paper. But they'd be sending off the Queen's messenger hawks tomorrow – he was running out of time.

 _You idiot,_ he thought, and took a vehement bite out of the apple. It was mealy and brown by this point and he threw it into the grass; his horse ran its velvety nose through the grass and found it, nudging it before eating.

The pen hovered above the page. Behind it, a pale blur, field flowers waved in the breeze in encouragement. Armin's words came back to him: _"Surely, if you love someone, you forgive them anything?"_

His hand moved impulsively, as though his heartbeat inside it had muscled past his pride in order to speak for itself.

 _'I love you.'_

"Saddle up! Prepare to move out!"

* * *

The cloying warmth of the afternoon was left behind, like shedding a cloak, as Mercedes descended beneath the streets of Stohess. Her steps clapped on the wooden slats suspending her above the torch-pinpricked darkness below. The stairs curled around the wide, well-like tunnel that had so recently been covered by the hollow edifice of a large building of ambiguous purpose but fitting architecture; it served to hide the means by which they'd taken Annie underground. She'd not been here before nor precisely understood what exactly 'the entrance' pertained to, and now the plot to steal Annie back out again suddenly seemed more plausible. The last of the sunlight from the hall above disappeared and with it retreating over her shoulders, so too did she push back the hood of her cloak.

She'd been lucky. Those that surreptitiously guarded-come-occupied the building had not yet heard of her suspension, and the medal Pixis had given her seemed to shut down any questions they had. Nonetheless she was aware that she was on borrowed time. It could well be within the hour that she was reported as having broken her orders. Again.

As she descended the cool of the subterranean space lapped at first her ankles, then her shins and knees, then up her torso, and finally laid a cool hand on her collar, neck and forehead. It was a small respite from the pressure of the past two days. It'd already been more than she bargained for but then, so had much of her life. And yet…her old Instructor's words came back to her: _"the nature of this task seems to be pushing you toward playing politics when lately, no one's sure what the board looks like or what piece belongs to whom. You need to be prepared for that. You're young, still, and that game never ends well."_

This didn't feel like politics. It felt too bloody to be politics. But she knew what Carlstedt-Gaus meant – she was playing on a much bigger scale than she'd done before. She was no longer just a pawn – her actions had consequences and not just for her career – and she was having others move for her as well. Even now the twins were heading for Carlstedt-Gaus and Shadis, the shifter serums buried in the basket, while Oliver and Baena holed up in the hospital and Fhalz…

 _Fhalz,_ she thought, and quickened her steps as best she could, trailing one hand along the stone wall.

Disobeying was all she felt capable of doing. She couldn't count on Pixis to intervene at all much less in a timely fashion, and Woerman and Rico remained unaware of her instructions. Who knew if she'd see Gustav again. And in the meantime her squad had been placed in jeopardy and remained in jeopardy, and she had been inadvertently tasked with finding her other cousin, Valentin, who was also likely in his own related brand of trouble.

There was a pool of dark amber at the bottom of the five stories' worth of stairs, like honey in the bottom of a teacup. The color beckoned her no matter how much she wanted to resist what it could represent – yet another catalyst, yet another memory resurfacing to draw her closer to the heart of someone, or something, else rather than belonging to her at all. It was a merciless color in its sincerity.

 _Jean,_ she suddenly remembered. _His eyes…_ His eyes were that color. _How could I have forgotten? They drew me just as this gravity draws me. Where are you now? Have you been shouldered with as much? Are you stifling your pain, too? Do you even feel it?_ Those eyes, narrowed at her and glimmering with tears, his hand reaching for her face but recoiling, every sinew in him contorting to turn his body and allow him to walk away.

Her steps slowed and for the briefest of moments, she lingered on the step. When would she ever have time to think about her own heart? She bit down on a knuckle, keeping herself and the rattle of the hunger in check.

Her feet carried on downward. There would be time later for such personal things. There would be time later, and hopefully – hopefully it would be while he still lived.

The area at the bottom of the stairs was barren except for a simple desk and chair by an open doorway to another tunnel – large enough, again, for a crystal at about eight by eight – and she was surprised that there wasn't a guard at this point. The shift roster on a clipboard hung on a nail behind the desk and Mercedes took the liberty of glancing it over in the light of the torch beside it. There was no sign of Baldev's name or anyone else she recognized, and it was only vaguely interesting to her that the shifts seemed to be twelve hours long – were they really that short-staffed, or was restricting the number of people who knew Annie was down here that much of a priority?

 _The latter, in all likelihood._ She flipped through the several pieces of looseleaf and saw that the long shifts had only begun fairly recently – a week ago, in fact _. This must have been when Pixis first heard the rumors of the plot._ The pages crackled from all the imprints of the handwriting as she let them fall back into place.

She glanced at the dark tunnel to her left, and cocked her ankle to one side to feel the knife in her boot. Otherwise she was unarmed. Although fairly certain she wasn't going to encounter any problems down here, the fact that she was so close to the core of the entire matter made her automatically suspicious. She headed into it anyway.

The tunnel was far shorter than she anticipated and opened into a small unadorned cavern; to her right, suspended in the corner and flanked by two large bracket-torches, was Annie's crystal. She'd never seen it in person before: it hung there like a terrible chrysalis and it was hard to believe that something as immense as the Female Titan, as Annie Leonhardt, was contained within it – or worse, may eventually emerge from it once more.

 _How many people know that you're hidden down here?_ she mused. _Do you have a family that doesn't even know you still exist, like me and mine?_

"Can I help you?"

Mercedes looked at the source of the oddly chipper voice – a baby-faced, fairly tall guard with close-set eyes and a Military Police jacket. She'd clocked him upon entry but had dismissed him as non-threatening, and now her conscious mind had to advise her subconscious one how to properly behave. She restrained herself from calling him a tourguide. He had a rifle but it was strapped completely across his back as though in preparation for riding rather than quick defense, and he was the only other person in the room.

She walked over to him, and even her slow pace seemed to intimidate him; he took a couple of steps back against the wall beside Annie's crystal and his face dropped. She could see him noticeably scanning her lack of uniform, but his face held a small degree of recognition that grew stronger the closer she came to the light, until he was smiling and relaxed again.

"You're Mercedes Carello," he said. He had light brown hair and freckles, and with a sinking feeling in her chest reminded her of Marco. His hand reached up and hung on his rifle strap and he relaxed one leg, "Sorry," he half-grimaced. "Usually it's the officers or Mr Arlert that come down here," he said.

The latter surprised her. Armin came down here, and enough for it to be classed as 'usual'? But that too was a thought for another time. Instead, she said, "I'm surprised you know me or, better yet, that you aren't spitting a curse at me."

He laughed briefly and lightly to himself as he shook his head. "Heh, no. Not everybody's that stupid."

Mercedes regarded him a moment, and after briefly wondering how old he was and how so friendly an individual got landed with this job, she made a couple of steps toward the crystal.

"I do have to ask what brings you down here. My job, an' all."

She paused, smirked to herself and fished the medal out of her pocket. "Orders from Commander Pixis," she said, showing it to him. He hooked a finger around its back to examine it and though he squinted, she recognized that he didn't really know what he was looking at. "I just came to look around, ask a couple of questions. I promise I won't take up too much of your time." Her hand withdrew and stowed the medal.

His stifled laugh came again, and rubbed the bridge of his nose – crooked, as though it'd been broken once or even twice. "I wouldn't worry about that. Not like I'm about to throw a party."

Mercedes offered a small smile of sympathy.

"What do you need to know?"

"I'm going to look around first," she said, and moved away. "Should gather what you can first before asking others."

"Oh! Oh of course. Yes. You'd want to do that first I'm sure. Sorry."

The crystal drew her as if it had its own gravity. Reflections of the firelight dappled the ground underneath it and she felt like she was stepping into clear water. In contrast, at first it was hard to see Annie through all of the facets that fractured her core into a thousand-threaded web; Mercedes finally found a good angle and took a long look at the blonde as if she herself had the answers to her own potential kidnapping. She didn't look any different from the last time Mercedes had seen her, at the disbanding ceremony. Her face was calm, on the melancholy side of peaceful. Mercedes struggled to have the same sympathy for her as she had for Marco but when she stood upright and began to move around the crystal again, she noticed tide-marks where the dust on the crystal's surface had been meticulously wiped away and had re-gathered; the freshest, faintest layer was around Annie's face. Mercedes wondered if this had been Armin's doing in his numerous visits and it was that thought that tried to spurn pity in her.

 _But I'm not here on Armin's behalf,_ she reminded herself. Her eyes narrowed and her face became dispassionate.

Although she wasn't sure what good it would do, she investigated the crystal itself for any signs of tampering or preparation for moving. How someone would be able to do anything to a substance that was supposedly unbreakable was beyond her. She started at the side nearest the guard and worked her way around, bottom to top, until she came to the opposite side. Nothing unusual, but thoroughness prompted her to attempt to see what she could in the narrow space between crystal and cavern wall. She waved a hand into it to sweep away cobwebs, and then ran it over the surface.

There was a crack in it. Not a particularly sharp edge or an unusually deep crevice, but a crack, running jaggedly from the far top corner toward her knee and splitting into a fork halfway down.

 _What the fuck?_

Her heart started to speed up. She wedged herself as much as she could into the narrow space, placing two fingers of each hand together on the fissure and sliding them outward to trace it to either end. It was nearly as long as her arm-span and, to her untrained eye, appeared to be deeper than a simple surface scratch.

 _Was she dropped? Was this always here? Jean said he couldn't make a scratch with his blades so what could have caused this? Or did…did_ she _cause it?_

Beyond the foggy looking glass and silhouette of Annie's body, fleshy, earthy colors swung and mottled. "Is everything all right?" the guard asked. "Lieutenant?"

Mercedes scoffed. "I'm not a Lieutenant." She pushed herself back out into the open.

"Warden, then," he said. At her sharp glance he added, "Just Warden?"

She composed herself. "Your name?"

He seemed genuinely confused by the question. "Sol Feigenbaum."

"All right, Sol," she crossed her arms. "How long have you been a guard here?"

"About a year now," he replied, his face growing worried. He held more tightly onto his rifle strap.

"During that time has anyone come down here asking odd questions, to your knowledge, or otherwise acting suspiciously?"

"Not that I'm aware of –"

A gun fired and the bullet ricocheted off the wall near Sol's head; they ducked as it ricocheted again off Annie's crystal and found home in his calf. Mercedes was already dragging him toward and behind the crystal – the only cover in the entire space – before he even fell. She threw him in the corner between stone and wall and hunkered down in front of him.

"Get your rifle," she commanded. Over his wincing, she heard Sol comply and scoffed again when he held it up to her without hesitation. "No, idiot – you keep that," she hissed. Footsteps echoed to Mercedes and she risked peering around the crystal.

A lanky figure, nearly six foot, dressed in dark clothing with a short cape and hood, and a gold mask. Another courier. Mercedes let out a small sigh. He – she guessed it was a 'he', anyway – stalked confidently into the space and for a split second, she felt his movements as her own and wondered if this was somewhat like what Sol had seen when she arrived. He carried a pistol in his right hand and headed directly for them.

For some reason, Mercedes found herself exceedingly angry. "Cover me," she said to the wide-eyed Sol, and stood.

"Warden –"

Mercedes narrowly dodged the next shot and ran at the Courier; she met his rising pistol with a slight tilt of her body, grabbed the top of the barrel with her left hand and knocked the inside of his gloved wrist with the side of her right. His grip loosened just enough for her to snatch the gun and turn it on him. He immediately raised his hands and backed away a few steps.

"Not that bad of a shot, but you've clearly learned no countermeasures," she said, and quickly paced to be between him and the exit. She leveled the pistol at him. "Mask off," she growled.

The Courier didn't move.

She cocked her head. "I said: mask – off."

She thought she heard him sigh. His hand hesitated once, twice, on its way up to hook its fingers behind the mask and pull it off. Dark curls, somewhat tanned skin, intense brown eyes atop pronounced cheekbones – she knew without a doubt that she was looking at a Carello.

* * *

 **A Note From the Author:** Thank you muchly to everyone who's read and reviewed, and been patient with updates! Y'all rock.


	13. Chapter 13: Shots Fired

**Chapter 13: Shots Fired**

"You must be Valentin," she said, letting her voice become light, almost brittle. _Three years older than me,_ she remembered as she took in the scowl and five-day stubble etched into his proud face. It was longer than her father's and his nose was wider and flatter, and she wondered if that was Jana's genes or her uncle's. He did remind her of a lion of a kind.

He didn't answer her, but she thought she could detect a little confusion. There were dark circles under his eyes and she wondered if he was running on the last dregs of his energy – a feeling she knew well and wanted to exploit. She heard Sol struggling to his feet behind her.

"Did you know you were shooting at your cousin?" she asked, and when his eyes flicked over to look behind her, presumably at Sol, she said, "No, me." The confusion seemed to be alleviated, replaced by a mild shock that he was trying to hide. She fed off it, sidling closer, the pistol still raised and voice still frighteningly gentle. "Shame we had to meet again like this. Did you come to assassinate me or some bullshit? I met your sisters this morning and I have to say they were far more pleasant."

"You haven't grown much," he muttered, bristling with a slight roll of his shoulders and a tightening of his grip on the mask. His stare, however, remained defiant.

She flashed him a grin, and it died just as quickly. "Who sent you?" When yet again he didn't answer she decided to try a different tactic. "It seems you have a choice," she readjusted her grip on the pistol and thought she could feel a carving in the stock, but didn't want to remove her gaze to see whether it read 'Carello'. "I don't know what brought you to this point, but now you have a chance to change it. You can either continue to work against your family, or you can help it. What's going on here…what you're involved in…" she shook her head, recalling the feel of the crack beneath her fingers, "it's bigger than you. It's dangerous and you're in too deep."

"You shouldn't underestimate me, if we're family," Valentin said. The apathy he had been maintaining was beginning to crack – his muscles were clenching and unclenching, his jaw was beginning to work itself and his body heave with his breaths. Was he really that angry?

The snap, when it came, was in the form of a violent throw of his mask at her face. It was heavy enough to travel a small ways but not aerodynamic enough to fly straight. Mercedes batted it out of the way and her knuckles rang dully on the metal. Valentin had used the distraction to charge at her, hunkered, and Mercedes aimed the pistol at his feet – when she pulled the trigger it didn't fire, and she cursed. She threw it to one side and dipped down as she turned, angling an elbow behind her and bracing for impact. Almost unable to stop himself, Valentin nearly ran full-force into her elbow and he gasped as he nonetheless made contact, his hands trying to push off of her body; she took the opportunity to grab the cape and shirt on his back and use it to throw him over her shoulder. He landed with a _thud_ on his back.

Sol limped over with his rifle and aimed it at him as best he could; Mercedes crouched by Valentin's head, drawing her knife and holding it at his throat. Her other hand secured itself in his hair. "Never went into the military, huh? You're just a lot of hot air."

"Shut it!" he shouted at her. "You have no idea what's going on and you're a fine one to talk about hot air!" His Adam's apple was jumping so much that it skimmed the edge of her knife and blood was drawn.

"Then why don't you tell me?" she retorted down into his face. "And if you know what's going on then why on earth are you still involved? I find it hard to believe that your mother raised you to think of conspiracy an acceptable pastime."

He fumed. "They have the other gun, all right? They're keeping it as insurance." He looked away.

Mercedes leaned back. Her first thought, oddly, was to wonder if this was how Julia felt most of her waking like. "What?" she uttered dryly.

"We had the three pistols that Grandma Julia designed and I stole two and then they took one from me. They won't let me have it back until we're done."

She didn't blink; her mouth fell open and for a moment the words wouldn't come. "Are you…are you really this stupid?" His eyes narrowed. "You got involved and stayed involved over a fucking pistol? Like they've taken one of your toys?" she shrieked. "How old are you again?"

"Well what do you know about losing shit that's rightfully yours, that you care about?" he spat.

Mercedes was dropped into a calm that she knew was dangerous but enjoyed nonetheless. She caught him in her stare and he fell still. After a tense moment she said, "More."

Valentin at least seemed to have the decorum to pause and calm down, too. "I suppose they don't call you the Hollow Warden for nothing."

Mercedes couldn't let the comment touch her. The pair of them stewed in silence for a moment or two. She glanced at Sol, noted him swaying but trying to hold the rifle steady even as his calf bled through the hole in his uniform boot and puddled on the floor. That more than anything prompted her to round this up.

"So, what's it going to be?" she asked. "You gonna help me or what? I may even help _you_ get your gun back." She moistened her lips and withdrew her knife as a gesture of faith; Sol copied her and lowered the rifle. "Carellos aren't bad guys, Valentin. Misguided on occasion, sure. But we're not conspirators." She thought back to how she'd waited to assassinate King Fritz as Erwin's last resort, "We're the vanguard, the salute, and…yes, the wardens."

"I'm not a Carello," he said through gritted teeth. "We left that name behind at the same time we left behind our storybooks."

"Well this is a storybook written in your blood, and there's no leaving that behind," she said, gently but firmly, and sheathed her knife before standing. "Get up," she said and heard herself echoing Rico.

"Don't tell me what to do," Valentin said, but slowly got to his feet. By the way he seemed to have trouble moving his limbs, either he was still winded or her theory about his tiredness had more weight than she'd originally thought.

"What are you, twelve? I am a squad leader, and at this point you're at best a civilian or at worst a co-conspirator. I'm inclined to give you a chance to prove you're the former but either way, you're obliged to follow my orders. Now," she stepped over and took Sol's rifle, "you are first going to help the soldier you shot get up to the surface for medical attention. And then," she fished the pistol off the ground, "you're going to take me to whomever sent you."

* * *

Miranda wiped a crumb of lunch from the corner of her mouth and, still frowning, followed the guard to the entrance to the training compound. She heard her aide taking over barking at the new trainees on the track and let the satisfaction in that buoy her up in the misfortune of the interruption – she'd been enjoying that sandwich, too.

"Did these visitors have names, Michael?" she asked. The ground began to slope steeply down and their steps became a judder. Gravel slid underfoot.

"They didn't say, Sir, only that they were cousins of 'a recent visitor' and that they'd been sent by her to deliver something."

Miranda rolled her eyes. "Michael, you really have to improve your screening technique, particularly when I'm coming down off a plateau and will have to hike back up it again. What if they're lunatics? Or solicitors?" She chuckled to herself.

She eyed the fencing branching away from the small timber gatehouse of the entrance, scanning it until she found the faint marks of the second guard and two brighter figures against the dull brown and gray of the landscape. The brighter ones – peach and rose, like flower petals – were somehow fluttering, and Miranda rubbed at her eyes and scoffed at herself for leaving her glasses behind. She processed what Michael had said.

 _'Cousins of a recent visitor', a female visitor at that._ It didn't take her long. _They must mean Carello._ She tutted. _What now? And why couldn't they just give her name…_

When they got to the bottom of the zigzagging path that scaled the slope, Miranda saw the two pastel blobs materialize into tall young women. One wore a sunhat that she would have found cute on any other occasion but today only struck her as somewhat comical. The other carried a wicker basket and she snorted a laugh, but managed to stifle it before she got to the fence. The second guard opened the pedestrian gate for her and she stepped through it, curving right to stand in front of the young women. They looked nervously at the guards and the one with the basket clutched it harder.

"Can I help you?" Miranda folded her arms, one finger hooking into the chest strap of her gear harness.

"Chief Instructor Carlstedt-Gaus?" the one with the hat checked.

Miranda nodded at her, frowning ever so slightly.

"We were hoping to speak to you in private," the one with the basket said. "Before we go any further."

Miranda rolled her eyes, determined they were of little threat to her, and beckoned them to follow her back through the gate. She took them into the middle of the road where she lined up her recruits both at the very beginning and at each stage of dismissal, out of earshot of the gate guards, and then turned back around. The girls nearly ran into her and each other at the sudden stop.

"Names, please." Miranda put her hands on her hips. "I trust you're Mercedes' cousins?"

"I'm Marguerite, and this is Adrienne," Marguerite held onto her hat as a blast of wind nearly tore it from her; it pulled back the hood of the pale green scarf Adrienne had made over her head. "Blanchet," Marguerite added.

"She sent you to deliver something to me?"

The girls looked over their shoulders at the guards, who stood looking at them but she knew couldn't hear them. Adrienne set the basket on the ground and fished beneath the tea towel that covered its contents.

"Mercedes said you'd keep this safe until she was done," Adrienne said, procuring a dark brown belt with two hard-cased pouches with animal-teeth toggles. She clutched it to her as she stood, and surreptitiously handed it to Miranda.

Frowning, Miranda held the belt with difficulty in one arm and opened one of the pouches. In front of her the twins drew together to block the guards' view. Miranda's fingers met cool class and metal, and carefully procured a vial of clear liquid. Her breath hitched in her throat. "Is this…how…" She shuddered. Her teeth felt on edge and she replaced the vial, fastening the pouch as though in rejection of the very idea of what she held.

"Her father's," Adrienne said, her face stern. "She and her squad have been hiding them ever since they got back. No one is supposed to know, but she thinks the Couriers might."

"Wait, the Couriers?" Miranda squinted. "Who are they?"

"We're not too sure but they've kidnapped one of her squad and they may be working with our uncle, Baldev, who may be behind the rumored plot to kidnap the Female Titan," Marguerite blurted, her expression more pleading than her sister's. "And they may want these serums to start a shifter war."

Miranda blinked a few times as she attempted to process the concepts. Was this why Mercedes had come to their office and was asking all those questions?

"And now her squad has been put on suspension – they're held up at the hospital but Mercedes snuck out anyway to continue her investigation, but she couldn't take these. She didn't trust to leave them there," Adrienne said, pushing at the second, closed pouch with her fingertips. "She knew they'd be safe with you."

"That's all we know," Marguerite's eyebrows pinched and rose.

Miranda suddenly felt very exposed, as though she'd fallen through the ice of a frozen-over lake. She was also worried for Mercedes and what she might be getting herself into at this very moment. Suddenly her warning to her about political machinations seemed very real and very close.

"Where is she?" was the only thing Miranda could articulate.

"She didn't say. Said it'd be best if no one knew from this point on," Adrienne frowned.

Miranda raised her free hand to her head in exasperation and let it fall. She rolled the belt around her arm and opened her mouth to ask something else –

A gunshot hit the ground near their feet, making them jump. A second hit Miranda's arm. Marguerite yelped and held onto her, pulling at her nonsensically though there was nowhere out here to take shelter. The guards called to one another and exchanged a couple of shots. Through the searing pain in her left arm Miranda searched rapidly to see where the shots had originated. The three of them ran for the gatehouse, Adrienne pulling out a pistol from the basket as she went. More shots ricocheted off the road and the bare earth.

"Did you notice anyone following you?" Miranda grimaced as they made it to the gatehouse and took shelter inside it. Another shot splintered into the timber of the walls and she pushed both young women to the ground.

"No!" Adrienne shook her head wildly, a chestnut curl dancing into her face.

Miranda pulled off the belt and hid it behind the girls under the desk, and grabbed one of the spare rifles, hoping it was already loaded. "Get under the desk. Now." Even more shots were being fired outside and she saw the heads of the guards pass by the window as they took cover. She checked the rifle, found it loaded, and ducked back outside to join them.

"Situation report," Miranda demanded as she slammed against the wall behind the gatepost with Michael.

"Estimated three attackers in the south treeline, Sir," Michael nodded at the base of the plateau.

"But, that's inside the encampment. How could they have got in without us noticing?" Miranda mused to herself. She snapped her head out of the way of another shot. _Unless they're trainees and they've been in here the whole time,_ she realized.

"Our horses are up at base stables," the second guard, whose named escaped her, said from his place on the ground. He handed his spent rifle to Michael for reloading, taking back a ready one, and sighted, fired. He rolled out of the way of a few more shots that peppered the ground. "It'll be attrition that wins out at this stage until we see one another. Our rifles aren't accurate at this distance."

Miranda looked over her shoulder at a flare's shriek. A fuchsia-colored plume sailed out of the gatehouse window and into the afternoon sky, and all shots fell silent. They were followed shortly by shouting on the hill.


	14. Chapter 14: Enough

**Chapter 14: Enough**

"Don't count on it, don't count on it," Miranda murmured to herself, remembering her mother's warning. She reloaded quickly. There weren't that many qualified staff on the hill besides herself – it was for training new recruits, after all.

A distant rumble, perhaps of horses, but not yet close enough to determine its direction.

"Backup will come," Michael said, almost excitedly if she didn't know better. He was looking in the direction of the trainee base.

 _Not quickly enough,_ Miranda thought. "We need to guard the girls in the –"

A shot pierced Michael's skull and threw him into the wall of the gatehouse; he crumpled like a ragdoll. The shot had come from the trees directly across the road in front of them – there was nowhere for Miranda and the second guard to take cover. Another scatter of shots hit the ground at their feet, the gatehouse, shattered the window. Miranda felt one impact her stomach, and the second guard barely managed to get to his feet before he too was struck down with three shots.

Through the haze of pain and dust, Miranda could see figures approaching, along with horses farther down the road. She pressed one hand to her stomach and clung to her rifle, pushing herself along the ground with her feet to get in front of the doorway.

"Here! We can help!"

Miranda glanced only briefly over her shoulder to see Marguerite and Adrienne hovering at the door. Luckily they seemed unharmed. "Get...back inside," she said through gritted teeth. She didn't know what good it would do, exactly – but if their attackers had come for the girls then they stood a better chance of staying alive if they did not resist.

She heard one of the girls coax the other away, and propped her rifle as best she could on her shaking knee. She aimed at one of the gold masks shining in the sun, and fired – she missed, and the kickback made the rifle fumble to the ground. The masked individuals – presumably the Couriers the girls had mentioned earlier – picked up their pace even as Miranda felt her strength waning. She tried to lift the rifle again but all too soon it was kicked out of her hand. Her other was too full of hot blood.

There were at least a dozen of them on foot, all armed, masked and dressed in non-descript clothing, and a further – she squinted through the bodies, through her swimming vision – half-dozen on horseback. One of them nudged her out of the way with a boot and she collapsed into a puddle of red – hers and –

 _Duncan. His name was Duncan,_ Miranda remembered as she saw the body of the second guard. Her vision trailed a little farther out, spotting the bright red soaking into Michael's golden curls. How young they were. Her daughter's age; maybe they'd had children, too.

"Leave her. She'll bleed out anyhow. Consider it an early retirement for her, eh?" The male voice distracted her, drawing her line of sight up again. She hadn't realized another gun had been pointed at her; it lowered. She could hear footsteps inside the gatehouse, and scuffling, the muted snarls of the twins.

Shortly, the twins were pulled out of the gatehouse and into the sunshine like two blossoms ripped from a branch. No hat. No scarf. No ridiculous picnic basket. Just someone's daughters that someone else – presumably with none of their own – decided to use as leverage. Miranda felt overwhelmingly sad about this whole business. As she watched them be dragged toward the horses that lingered close to the trees beside the road, she couldn't help but think of all the other daughters – and sons, too – that she'd sent off to war as humanity's own leverage. She'd done it with full knowledge of having a child of her own and what that'd felt like – what it'd felt like to lose them in that bargain.

The twins were pulled onto two of the horses in front of their riders. Those on foot began to retreat. Miranda's head fell to the ground. Another Courier walked through the gate and tossed the picnic basket to one side; its contents scattered over the ground. He announced, "Dead end. A bluff. They don't have 'em! Find the Hollow Warden."

The words sparked something in the cage of Miranda's ribs, like a tiny bird flinging itself repeatedly at the bars.

 _No._ She couldn't die. Not now. They hadn't found the serums, and now they were back on Carello's trail and using her cousins to who knew what end – she couldn't let any more children die today.

 _You have to tell Shadis; anyone. Others will be making their way down the slope – they'll be here soon. You have to staunch the bleeding. You have to stay conscious long enough to tell them what's going on._ Miranda groaned and coughed as she began to drag herself backwards into the gatehouse. The wound in her arm now felt like little more than a bruise in comparison to the vicious tugging in her stomach.

The barely ten by twenty room suddenly felt like an acre. She pushed past the overturned chair toward Adrienne's pale green scarf pooled under the desk – the only thing she could feasibly reach that would help her. Miranda thought she heard more shouting outside but couldn't be sure it wasn't panic playing tricks on her. It seemed to take a lifetime to reach that scrap of silken material; her fingers brushed it, blotting it with red. As Miranda pulled it toward her, though, she met resistance and heard the chink of glass – one by one the vials rolled over the planks of the wooden floor, eddying against the foot of the desk.

Although Miranda hurried and stuffed the scarf against her abdomen, trying to breathe steadily, she couldn't help but smile. 

* * *

Mercedes followed Valentin on horseback through Mitras – at her request, the backstreets. Although it'd been a risk enough to take Sabine from the stables, she hadn't been able to get her maneuvering gear and it was now that she felt its absence in particular. Being led into the viper pit with little more than a gun, a knife, and a blank medal didn't feel like the wisest of moves, but rather the only one she felt capable of making. She had to hope that Valentin wouldn't try anything stupid.

They kept to a docile pace so as not to raise any attention, helped by the hoods of their cloaks, and as a result it took them longer than normal to reach the river. The sun was going down – it'd be sunset in maybe a couple of hours and the dark could potentially make things more difficult.

"How much farther?" she called to him.

"There." He nodded and, rolling her eyes, she tried to pinpoint its general direction. The mouth of the side street they were traveling down perfectly framed a bridge over the river, close to which were two rows of trade barges. The decorative landscaping prevented her from seeing much else for the time being.

"You'd best not be leading me into chasing the wind," Mercedes said.

"Weren't you doing that to begin with? I thought that's what you did best," Valentin retorted. He stopped his horse – a caramel-colored stallion that reminded Mercedes of Bashka, Julia's horse – and dismounted. "We leave the horses here."

Mercedes thought about objecting, but understood the need for it. If they tied up the horses in the open, it'd raise suspicion. She dismounted and, like Valentin, looped Sabine's reins around the metal grate that supported a windowbox overflowing with ivy and red flowers. She eyed the promenade beneath Valentin's horse's head and estimated that if she needed to, she could run it easily even with the phantom ache in her right leg.

She shadowed Valentin by a single pace as he led them onto the neatly-paved promenade, through the line of trees and a gap in the shubbery clustered beneath them, and down a set of steps to a dock that ran along the water and under the bridge to continue on its way. At first she thought they would go onto the barges, but Valentin took her past them. She spared a few glances to decide that these barges were likely the means by which supplies were gathered in the Trost warehouse - and if Baldev was a corrupt MP with prior charges of misuse of government funds, and based in and around the Interior, then it was likely Valentin was indeed taking her to him.

When they walked under the bridge, Valentin replaced his mask and pushed his hood back so he could tie the mask's ribbons around the back of his head. Mercedes watched him, tensing.

"I hope you know what you're doing," he said, his voice muffled.

Mercedes didn't comment on it. She was fairly sure, and that would have to be good enough.

"So, do I tie you up or something? I'll need my gun back."

"How about you let me worry about explaining," she said, reluctantly handing his pistol back to him and eyeing the metal door in the side of the bridge's undercarriage. "Lead on." She nodded at it. Beyond the door was darkness, and she stood aside implicitly for him to go first. As he passed her she whispered, "Don't think I need a gun to kill you. But I'd rather not."

Mercedes closed the door behind them and everything became pitch-black, reminding her of the Trost warehouse when she'd led her squad into a similar darkness. This time, though – contrary to her words – she wasn't going to let anyone close to her come to harm because of her. She'd let Valentin lead until there was light, and then she'd take over. She heard him tracing a gloved hand along the mortar in the right-hand wall, and she did the same but more lightly and with both hands, out of curiosity. Her fingers crossed one other door pair of doors opposite each other, and she realized he must be counting them. Her fingers crossed a second set, and a third, but he stopped at the fourth on the right. She estimated they were a block away from the river.

The fourth door opened with a clank and a squeal of protest that echoed harshly in the narrow space. Mercedes blinked as her eyes rapidly adjusted to the relatively dim glow of a torch in its bracket on the wall. It was a small room with an empty desk and several large barrels lining the lefthand wall behind it; directly in front of them was yet another door edged with much brighter light. As Valentin closed the door they'd just entered through, Mercedes picked out voices on the other side that apparently been bothered by the noise.

She noticed, then, that Valentin seemed reluctant to move forward. She turned. "Oi," she prompted, frowning at her blurry reflection in his mask. It was hard to know what to say, being unable as she was to determine the reason for his hesitation. She could at least see that he was looking at her.

"Why're you…" he began, then cut himself off.

Though her frown softened, she felt like her heart had creased instead. She hadn't expected to feel sympathy at his tone, however briefly it was sustained. "Why am I doing this," she supplied for him.

He didn't agree or deny; Mercedes saw herself in him and that both encouraged and worried her. She too didn't respond, merely gave him a brief smile and hoped it'd be enough. She nodded over her shoulder at the door.

After a moment's further hesitation, Valentin's back straightened and his grip tightened around the pistol. He walked past her and opened the door onto a platform; beyond it was a large antechamber with a curved brick ceiling and walls, from which hung bright gaslights in sconces or lanterns on chains. At the far end was a large table, around which were gathered six masked Couriers, flagons of something in their hands. The rest of the room was largely empty, although three other doors either side spoke of more rooms. Mercedes searched immediately for Fhalz but could not see him.

"What's this, then? Fancy that – you came to us rather than having to be dragged down here like a common whore."

Mercedes recognized the voice that echoed across the fallen-silent room – it was the leader who'd goaded her back at the warehouse. Valentin closed the door behind them and she walked down the set of steps to their right; he followed a step behind, and a glance in her periphery showed her that he held the pistol prominently, leaving it ambiguous whether he was wielding it at her.

Once she'd reached the bottom of the stairs and taken a few steps, Mercedes said, "I'm looking for Baldev Usbet."

The Couriers began to stand; another emerged from a side room to her right with blood on their hands. The leader, still wearing the pistol, rounded the table to walk forward with his hands on his hips. Mercedes sneered at the posturing.

"And why might that be? I thought I warned you to cease your investigations?" the leader said.

"I'm looking for Baldev Usbet," Mercedes repeated, louder. She scanned the Couriers, wondering if any of them was Gustav and if the one with bloodied hands had just come from Fhalz. None of them – with the exception of the leader – appeared armed, which she found both reassuring and confusing.

The leader took another couple of steps forward and seemed to be craning his neck to look around her, presumably at Valentin. "I presume you didn't find your way here by yourself. Care to explain, brother?"

"If you're stalling for time, don't bother," Mercedes said before Valentin could respond and clue the leader in to his allegiances.

"What're you going to do to speed us up, then? You and your army of one, two at most?" The leader folded his arms.

Mercedes rocked forward onto the balls of her feet, prepared to sprint forward, but was halted by the opening of another door to her left – it wasn't closed in time to stop her from seeing it was another hall rather than a room and, judging by who emerged, suggested another entrance to the underground sanctum.

"Got 'em, Sir," said one of the Couriers that came into the room. He and his comrade glanced to their right, at Mercedes and Valentin, and fell quiet.

Mercedes' jaw fell a little slack as she stared at the twins, both held too tightly by their upper arms by the Couriers. They caught her gaze. They were still bright, but disheveled and dusty, and their eyes were wide and brows knit. As well as being worried for their safety, Mercedes was now worried about the effect their arrival was having on Valentin, their brother, but she couldn't look around to see.

"Did you really think we wouldn't be watching?" the leader said, getting her attention again. He jerked his head and the twins were dragged farther into the room; after watching their progress for a long moment, he looked at their guards. "So? Where are the goods?"

Neither of the guards answered right away, but eventually one ventured, "It was a ruse. They didn't have them after all."

Mercedes kept the shock from her face. Did that mean they were captured after visiting Carlstedt-Gaus?

"They were meeting with the Chief Instructor, like you said, but there was nothing on 'em," the other guard added. "We thought you might want the girls for insurance so we took 'em by force."

Mercedes' heart sank and she feared for the safety of her erstwhile Instructor.

One of the leader's fists flexed, "And by force I assume you mean bloodshed, and witnesses to two very recognizable captives being brought here."

"No witnesses, Sir," the first guard said. "Two gatekeepers gunned down, the Chief Instructor was bleeding out."

Mercedes clenched her jaw.

"In any event, we haven't much time." The leader's attention returned to Mercedes. "It appears you have a choice." He took out the pistol, cocked it, and walked over to the twins. They hung onto one another as best they could, and Mercedes heard Valentin's breathing deepen and quicken, behind her. "I will tell you what you need to know at the price of one cousin per question. So, that gives you three questions. The caveat, of course, being that you won't be leaving with everyone you came for, tonight. May as well learn something for your trouble, right?"


	15. Chapter 15: The Sword of Damocles

**Chapter 15: The Sword of Damocles**

"I'm not here to bargain," Mercedes growled.

"Yes, you've made that quite clear since the beginning of this, all those years ago," the leader said. He held the pistol up, aiming at the twins. "You much prefer to take rather than give, don't you?" Many of the Couriers sniggered.

Mercedes tried to think as rapidly as she could. She had four pieces of collateral: her cousins and Fhalz. Valentin could possibly take care of himself if he was truly on her side and his exhaustion didn't win out; Gustav was maybe in here somewhere, but who knew if he was armed if he was. There was little by way of cover. She was outnumbered -

"First question, then," the leader said. "I'm waiting."

She looked at the twins, and caught Adrienne's eye. Adrienne winked at her. Before she even had time to frown, Adrienne had pinched Marguerite's elbow and she'd yelped in response, laughing absurdly. Adrienne added her own chaotic noises and the two of them stumbled a little; in the confusion Adrienne latched onto the leader's arm and jerked it upward; he fired into the ceiling.

 _There's only two shots before he has to reload,_ Mercedes recalled, even as her body began to move for her to take advantage of the distraction.

Everything seemed to slow. Adrienne was thrown to one side, Marguerite had her arms pinned behind her and was lurched backward. Mercedes bolted, crossing the short distance between her and the leader to tackle him to the ground. She straddled him, sitting on his chest and pinning his upper arms with her knees, and swatted the gun out of his loosened grip; Adrienne snatched it just as Valentin came to her side, helping her to her feet. The two of them trained their pistols on the Courier who held Marguerite. Mercedes pulled her knife out of her boot and held it to the leader's throat.

"Everyone stay back, or he's dead!" Mercedes shouted at the other Couriers that'd tried to advance on her. They froze. A glance to her left showed her that Marguerite was free, and Adrienne and Valentin had their guns pointed at the two guards that'd entered with the twins in tow. " _Where is my squadmate_?"

A moment later, one of the right-hand doors opened and the Courier with the bloody hands re-emerged, Fhalz in tow. Not only was his leg still not set, but he was bloodied and torn, practically mangled - and it looked fresh. His glasses were gone and one of his eyes sealed shut. The other barely managed to focus on her.

"'Cee," he croaked, before he was thrown to the ground and didn't move to right himself. The Courier, she noticed, was holding Fhalz's knife, and he crouched and pressed its tip to his temple. His other hand rested over the pommel, prepared to drive it downward.

Mercedes snarled. "Get _away_ from him," she hissed.

"You put down your knife, I'll put down this one," the Courier said. His voice was older, strangely soft.

 _Damnit,_ she thought in the heavy pause that followed. Anger was consuming her. _Gustav said he'd look after him. Unless - unless this was all done while he wasn't here? Which would have meant that he was one of the ones who went to track down the twins, so maybe…_ she wanted to look behind her, see if either of the guards might be him.

"I told you." The leader, below her, said. "You're not getting out of here with everyone."

Mercedes barely heard him. She was too focused on Fhalz and the way he lazily blinked at her. _My friend. My first friend._ Every vein hurt for him and a fear - from all those years ago, when the bowl of molten gold had begun to tip above her - started to meld with it.

" _They're trying to rile you,"_ echoed Oliver's words in her brain.

"And while you're at it, tell your friends to drop their guns," the Courier with the knife added. "Do it now."

"You'd best listen," the leader added with, of all things, a chuckle.

Mercedes' eyes narrowed - there was something off. She glanced between the leader and the Courier crouching over Fhalz, back again. _I've misinterpreted,_ she realized. All of the facts she'd gathered up until now lay scattered across the floor and many of them finally seemed to fall into place.

"'Cee," Fhalz's voice had her focusing on him again and the pain was back. She thought she saw understanding there, in his eye. "Tell Baena - tell her -"

Mercedes shook her head once at him, and rose off the leader onto the balls of her feet; her hands lifted, her grip loosening on the knife. She glanced to her left and nodded at Adrienne and Valentin, who began to lower their pistols. Adrienne dropped hers, followed by Valentin.

"The knife," the Courier prompted. His voice remained soft, assured.

Mercedes let it fall and it landed with a _clunk_ and _tink_ on the floor. Still the Courier did not remove the other knife from its precarious teeter on Fhalz's temple - still her anger did not subside. She adjusted her footing. She glanced at Valentin as she said, "I'm going to count to three." Her gaze focused on the Courier.

"You're not in a position to make demands," the Courier responded. "Get off him." The blade remained.

Her left foot re-angled, taking most of her weight. "One," Mercedes said. Her right foot slid a little outward, and she pretended to rise.

"Theatrics won't help you," the leader commented, trying to push himself up on his elbows.

"Two." Her left hand twitched a little, dipping a finger ever so slightly in the direction of the floor - she'd have to hope one of them caught the hint. Anxious, the other Couriers shifted. The blade remained. In her periphery, Valentin seemed to tilt forward a hair.

"Give it up. Your family is going to die. Accept it."

"Three."

Valentin lurched forward just enough to kick the nearest pistol in Mercedes' direction; she was rolling to her left, and met it, folding it into her hands. She came up from the roll into a crouch, sighted in an instant, and pulled the trigger. The Courier with the knife was struck in the throat and fell to one side, gargling. The knife, too, toppled. Weakly, Fhalz managed to slide it across the floor toward her even as she set her sights on her own knife, which was nearly in the hands of the leader. She bared her teeth.

"Carello, stop!" Gustav shouted.

She didn't stop. She couldn't. She dropped the spent pistol and sprung forward; Valentin was beside her, tearing off his mask. Together they forged headlong into the fear and the fury.

While she swept into the leader, Valentin began to fend off other Couriers. She dipped into the leader's circle, tilting her body, elbowing him in the stomach and grabbing him, hooking her foot around one of his ankles and jerking, unbalancing him - she threw him back to the ground. The knife clattered out of his hand. She swept up Fhalz's knife, then her own. Her blood was loud in her ears; she bore down on the leader.

"Carello!" Gustav tried again.

"Traitor! You'll never -" the leader began.

Mercedes pounced onto him, crossed the knives over his throat and with a vicious outward jerk, slashed. Blood sprayed her face.

She hunched over him, screaming. Around her there was scuffling, punches being thrown, Fhalz's voice even among the shouting. Still she screamed. She howled at the body below her, at everything that'd been done to her and hers; she howled because rather than sated, she felt more and more need for vengeance pouring out of her, more indignation and sorrow. She clenched her knives so hard it hurt, and wheeled on the rest of the room, roaring, ready to spring again. All three of her cousins were at her side, facing the remaining Couriers who, unarmed, were hesitating. Gustav was wrestling with another off to one side, his still-masked face turned her in direction.

And then, Fhalz. She caught sight of him through Valentin's legs, unmoved, still looking at her. He was reaching for her, whispering something. All at once her fire seemed to go out and she shook from its leaving; the knives dropped from her hands. She crawled her way to him and no one stopped her; she nearly scrambled the last couple of feet, desperate to get to him, comfort him, apologize, hear him. She gently lifted him and cradled his head in her bloody hands in her lap.

"Fhalz, Fhalz I'm here."

"I...understand," he was saying to her, hanging onto her hand with his bruised one. "I understand, 'Cee, but, stop. You have to stop."

It took her a moment to catch his meaning. _The hurt - he knows it hurts and he knows that's why -_ she looked at the two men she'd killed. She looked at the other Couriers - other men she _wanted_ to kill. But it was unwise. All of this was unwise. She looked at her cousins - older than her but far too inexperienced to be tainted by what had transpired here. She felt horrified.

"Let it end here," Fhalz choked out.

Mercedes squeezed her eyes shut, wanting him to be right.

The door she and Valentin had entered through burst open, slamming into the brick. Figures came pouring through - Military Police, Garrison - led by Rico. Soldiers poured down the stairs and raced across the space toward them.

"Everyone with a mask - take 'em off, then hands up!" Rico yelled. Her eyes found Mercedes and for the briefest moments, she saw relief there before Rico was back to assessing the area. While the remaining Couriers were obeying due to the rifles now pointed at them, Gustav was removing his. "Two men to every door - go. Don't open until I say," Rico ordered next. The group of nearly twenty splintered and did as bade. "Amon - to Lathan over there."

Mercedes was trembling violently, rooted to the spot, refusing to let go of Fhalz and he to her. She watched as Gustav nodded to Rico and then walked over to both of the men Mercedes had killed, his face solemn. He first removed the mask of the one whose throat was slashed - a middle-aged man with pock-marked skin and patchy stubble, pale hair that wasn't quite gray or blond or brown - and then that of the one who had been shot in the throat - an older, well-groomed man with crisply-short white hair and very pale skin, his right eye sealed shut by a rather blunt-looking large scar.

"Mr Pfeiffer!" Marguerite exclaimed; Mercedes saw her looking at the older man.

Rico joined them. "What's going on here, Verkonnen?" she asked Gustav.

Bitterly, Mercedes found satisfaction in her theory being proved correct, at least. She nodded at Pfeiffer, answering on behalf of Gustav, "This one was the real leader. Damon Pfeiffer, prior Chief Instructor of the Western Division Trainee Squad." She'd find out how the twins and Valentin seemed to know him later. She nodded at the other, "That one was just a figurehead; a decoy. Probably only by luck he's survived the last four years."

Rico finally returned her gaze to her, then, as though it was painful to do. At the same time as Rico's eyes narrowed at her, the sympathy back, Fhalz's grip tightened; they understood the same thing.

"And Baldev Usbet? The Merchant?" Gustav asked her.

Mercedes took a deep breath to calm her shaking. Blood dripped out of her hair onto the floor. "I didn't think he'd be here, honestly. It was too easy. But."

Her eyes shot to the line of Couriers that were now being subdued. She spotted him; a tall man with a squarish face and olive skin, already looking at her with dark grayish-brown eyes - her mother's eyes. They regarded one another for a long moment, the panic in his face feeding her satisfaction and bitterness in equal measure. For a split second, she debated whether to say anything.

Then, without looking away she jerked her chin, "There. The one you wrestled, Gustav. He came back with you from getting my cousins, didn't he? Did he shoot Miranda, or the guards?"

Everyone looked at the man in question, who took a step back under the scrutiny.

"A shot to the head at fifteen meters - one of the guards," Gustav confirmed sadly.

"Then that's my mother's brother," Mercedes said with a sneer. "Our two families have always been good with a gun."

"Mercedes, you misunderstand!" Baldev attempted with a slight whine. "I only -"

"I misunderstand nothing," Mercedes cut him off. "I look forward to seeing you soon, Uncle. I'm not done with you."

In the tense pause that followed, Rico shifted feet. "Search the rooms," Rico ordered to the sideline pairs. Doors opened, more footsteps. "Restrain them and get them above ground; I want them behind bars immediately. Find the others. Amon, get Lathan up top too and to the nearest medic."

Mercedes was reluctant to let Fhalz out of her sight, but stood to help the Garrison soldier gingerly lift Fhalz from the floor. She prepared to help him move him, but Rico's hand on her shoulder stopped her. She turned to her, almost repulsed.

"Stay," Rico said, her voice softer. Her hand did not remove itself.

Mercedes blinked back unexpected tears from an emotion - or emotions - she couldn't label as Fhalz's grip was torn from hers. She took a small step after him as he was taken away, but stopped herself from going any farther. People were moving, then, brown shadows funneling themselves up the stairs, filing past her, the scuffing of shoes sounding oddly like water in the relatively empty space. She turned and saw all the masks lying discarded on the ground, and then watched the blood she'd spilt smear off the bodies of the leader and the figurehead as they were dragged away. The two knives and two pistols lay among them.

"The Blanchet siblings, I presume?" Rico said. Her hand remained on Mercedes' shoulder, keeping her still, but her voice had dragged her out of her personal mire and into listening.

"Yes," Valentin answered, and she heard the tiredness in his voice underneath the defensiveness.

"We tracked you two here," Mercedes presumed she was talking to the twins, "based on a report from Chief Instructors Shadis and Carlstedt-Gaus. It so happened to coincide with your mother filing a missing person's report for you," she presumed she meant Valentin. "The three of you will be questioned, I'm afraid, in light of all this. I suggest you get to the surface; no doubt Verkonnen can advise you on what happens next."

After a moment or two, Marguerite and Adrienne came into Mercedes' line of sight, replacing the blood trail. Their faces were clouded with concern. "We'll come find you," Marguerite assured her.

Mercedes frowned. "Please don't," her voice was a plea. She looked away, shaking her head.

At length the three of them slunk away toward the stairs, Valentin scooping up the pistols as he went and casting a regretful look behind him. Before distance and tears in her eyes drew a veil between them, she thought she saw the same small but encouraging smile she'd given him barely an hour ago.

* * *

 **A Note from the Author:** Thank you to everyone who's read and reviewed! You light up my life. Also, I'm aware that Gustav has not (yet) been given a surname in canon, to the best of my knowledge, so 'Verkonnen' is a placeholder of my own invention.


	16. Chapter 16: Hidden Lions

**Chapter 16: Hidden Lions**

The door closed; Rico and Mercedes were left alone in the room, already large, that had been made into an abyss by the silence. Abruptly, she remembered the same helpless terror she'd felt that night after the attack, when she'd run all the way back to the barracks and locked herself in the tiny bathroom. Her shoulders slumped a little but she tried to focus on the here and now, push it away. Because she was fairly certain why Rico remained.

"Thank you for not arresting me while they were here," Mercedes managed, trying to keep the quake from her voice - consequently it was vaporous, more of a thought than speech.

"I told you to stay in the hospital," Rico muttered. Her hand felt warm, even through Mercedes' cloak and shirt, as though this time she was the fire and Rico's hand the branding iron heating itself on her skin until -

 _They'd finally cut her down from the too-thin rope ties that'd held her up by the shoulders; she'd fallen to her knees and two of them held out her arms, pressing down on them from an awkward angle, while another forced her head to look up by jerking a fistful of her hair. A fourth had poured the gold - it had splattered on her shoulder like a bursting star -_

Mercedes blinked rapidly and flinched away from Rico.

Rico's hand lowered a little, her expression betraying a little concern but not yet enough to stop her next words. "You realize you've ruined your career, now. They won't let you stay in the military. I can't protect you and neither can Pixis. After all your misdemeanors, you then slaughter valuable suspects."

Mercedes' eyes alighted on the spilt blood on the floor, her fingertips. _But this wasn't it. They weren't the real - they were just decoys - they -_

 _They'd torn off her pants, her underwear. They'd done it with a dagger, an ugly slash upward from where the inside of her thigh met her sex - she'd recoiled, of course, meaning the end of the slice had haphazardly slipped over her pelvis like the tongue of a snake. They'd painted her skin with the drawn blood, their fingers. Not long after that they'd held her down, and one of them had buried himself inside her, drawing more. They were going to take turns. They -_

Mercedes felt the phantom ache between her legs again; her bloody hands clutched her abdomen. She was shaking more, now. _All of this was to ruin me. All of this was the ending of a personal vendetta, and I mean nothing in the grand scheme of things. The only thing of real substance, of real concern to the brass, was the crack in Annie's crystal -_

 _She'd felt like she had a crack along her back, too, when they'd tickled her spine with the dagger -_

"Carello?"

 _Stop it, keep yourself together,_ Mercedes told herself even as she trembled violently, shaking tears free.

 _She'd fought. With every inch of her. She'd fought through that hypnotic, goading voice of the figurehead whispering at her ear. Calling her 'the golden whore', 'the little madam', 'broken', 'spoilt goods', 'the pathetic end of the Carello line in a filthy slut'._ She realized now that they hadn't molested her because they were men and she was a seventeen year-old girl and because they weren't sure what else to do when she wouldn't give them any information about Titan shifters - no, that had been an excuse. It truly had. They'd wanted to humiliate her and her family, to stop her, to grind them to dust. It'd been calculated. _Intended._

"Mercedes."

And they'd continued to take and take, steal whatever they could from her without even needing to be present. They'd been there in the way she changed the course of her life to run from the memory of it, only for that course to take her straight back here - in the process she'd harmed so many close to her, killed hundreds of precious strangers - and they'd been there in the way she'd shied away from those who loved her. They'd been there in the way that all that running had channeled her into something far bigger, more prominent, than she'd ever originally wanted. They'd made her forget anything she'd ever really wanted, and replaced it with their own wants. She'd been taken apart and rebuilt over the past four years - maybe even before then, too - into their wildcard, their berserker, their scapegoat, their pawn. Just another hostage of fortune, a cat's paw.

 _And all for what? Nothing._ She'd sealed her fate when she'd killed those two men for nothing more than vengeance. She was truly the Hollow Warden she'd been slandered for, now.

She didn't feel angry anymore. She felt hurt and more alone than she'd ever felt in her life. She felt twenty-one and full of irreparable mistakes. Too far gone too soon.

Mercedes wrapped her arms around herself and broke into sobs. She crumpled to her knees, doubled over until her face nearly could have rested on the floor. Everything hurt. All of the old wounds - the star on her collar, the loops under her shoulders, the scratch up her back, the snake across her belly, the bullet kisses in her arm and across her cheek, the roses wreathing her thigh - were suddenly fresh. Their pain spread through her muscles like poison, consuming her until every bone ached.

But more than that was the pain in her heart. She could see her squad's faces. She could feel Julia's too-tight embrace. They'd had such faith in her. Still did, maybe. How could she tell them they'd placed their faith in nothing more than an instrument of someone else's design? Who knows why her father had truly done what he'd done but in her heart of hearts she knew it'd been because he'd lost her - far before she had lost herself. Marco had condemned himself to life as a shifter because of who he thought she was. Jean...worst of all, Jean had loved her. Who knows what he had loved, or why. And she had rewarded that with deceit - even if not of her own making - and separation. She was no longer worthy of what he had tried to give her. No - she'd _never_ been worthy.

The tears were coursing through the blood on her face. She was rocking herself. Each moan that grated its way up her throat echoed around the room, bouncing off the walls as though to strike her, punish her even for the sin of feeling remorse. Her hair curtained her face as her head bowed.

An arm gently slipping over her back, small hands holding onto her, attempting to hold her still.

"Mercedes." Rico's voice, calm and sympathetic beside her where she knelt, too. "They're gone now - it's over. It's all right."

Mercedes felt her lips crack as she bawled, "I didn't want any of this!" One hand tried to latch itself over her mouth, her noise. "I didn't want any of it."

With difficulty, Rico managed to pull her upright enough to embrace her. She held onto her as she sobbed into her shoulder. "No, no you didn't. Because you're a good person - you just try to convince yourself that you're not. You've been listening to the wrong people, let the wrong ones in." Rico paused, breathing deep. "It's not your fault, any of it."

"But I'm the one who has to live with it! I'm - I'm - Look what they've done - I'm a monster."

Mercedes was just about aware of Rico's grip tightening for a brief moment. "No, you're not. I've seen monsters, and not the ones we fight every day. You're strong - you've just been strong for too long." Mercedes breathing hitched once or twice. "Let it out."

Rico held her for what felt like an hour as she cried. All those times there'd been no room for tears, all those times she'd had to push aside what she felt, they all came roaring back so loudly Mercedes did wonder if there wasn't a jaguar hidden in her body, or a lion, trying to rip its way out of her skin.

Her throat grew hoarse and her body sore, and at length she quitened. Her fingers stopped digging into her skin so hard they bruised; her eyes had grown dry, their lids heavy. She slumped more and more against Rico - there was no room for shame, or much of anything at all. Every so often she shivered on an inhale - her heart remembering the acridity of its deepest wound.

 _Jean - where are you?_ It was as though when he walked away from her through the ashes he'd hidden himself just as Marco had hidden himself, and the best of her had gone with him. She'd been hidden then, too. Where had any of them gone and was there any way of finding them?

"You've been through a lot," Rico said, breaking the silence. "You have every right to feel this way. I wonder...if you need a break. Just - to go somewhere quiet, where none of this can touch you. Home, maybe?"

Mercedes stared blankly over the brown leather of Rico's jacket-covered shoulder. Instead of the back wall of the antechamber she could see her room at Julia's, with the red rug and the single bed, the striped curtains waving at the plum tree outside. She could see their ranch beyond the walls - the House of Heaven - and their footprints through the dust of abandonment, the open hearth, her parents' bed where Marco had slept beside her holding her hand, her room with the animals ribboning the walls in gold where Jean had stepped out of her dream from childhood, the graveyard where her uncles and grandfather kept watch on the hill. Neither of those places seemed like home, anymore. Whatever - whomever - had tainted her had tainted those, too.

"It can be arranged," Rico said, her voice soft. She carefully rubbed Mercedes' back with a hand.

"I - I don't have a home, anymore," Mercedes whispered. "I used to think it was a place, and then," even her whisper cracked, "I thought it was with people. I've ruined both." One hand weakly rose to indicate where Fhalz had lain, "You saw Fhalz. You saw Baena. And Oliver -" Oliver; the one she'd taken under her wing, encouraged, guided. What kind of example had she set?

"You didn't ruin anyone, or anything." Rico leaned away, holding Mercedes upright by the shoulders. Her face was as stern as always, but this time laced with pity. "It only feels like it because you've not had much by way of respite. Others have ruined things, and they haven't left you alone. You see that, don't you?" She shook Mercedes once. "Why do you think I've been so hard on you? I've been trying to get you to slow down, stay away. But you kept going and now you're burnt out. You need to rest, lay low. Otherwise those fuckers will have won."

Mercedes' gaze dropped between them. Details of the past couple of days were beginning to re-emerge, like bubbles floating to the surface of water. Though it was exhausting to contemplate, she knew rest was the last thing she would be able to do right now. "No," she said.

"No?"

"This - this isn't done yet. It isn't over," Mercedes shook her head, wiping at her cheeks.

"What do you mean?"

Mercedes' voice struggled to find its strength again. "While this whole business may have been personally significant to me, ultimately it's nothing in the grand scheme of things. Yet it was just enough to catch Commander Pixis' attention. I think it's been a decoy. I need to figure out -"

"Mercedes stop it," Rico snapped. Her heavy eyebrows were drawn down over her sharp eyes. "You need to -"

She shrugged helplessly, bitterly. "What's one more hour? One more day? A year? I am who I am, now. It's not finished and we need to know why and I seem to be best-suited to finding out, so what else can I do? There's nothing left of me but duty. They got the Warden they wanted."

Rico's frown changed, then, her brow pinching and rising. "There you go again, listening to the wrong people. Don't say things like that."

"The 'right people' are gone!"

Rico sat back on her haunches and sighed, her face resettling into most of its usual stoicism. "Not all."

Mercedes paused, teetering back from plunging yet again into the despair. She composed herself as best she felt able.

Rico regarded her for a moment, and then pulled herself to her feet. "First, we're going to get you cleaned up. Then we're going to take a carriage to where most of the questioning will be done - on the way you're going to tell me what you mean by 'decoy', and leave nothing out."


	17. Chapter 17: Idleness And Misfortune

**Chapter 17: Idleness and Misfortune**

Slowly, methodically, Valentin rolled up the left sleeve of his charcoal-colored button-up. They'd been taken to the closest Military Police Headquarters, which happened to be on the other side of the river near the eastern gate of Mitras; it was a two-storey, long building that seemed to have trapped most of the summer day's heat and even now, in the night, in this tiny bare room it made him as drowsy as cheap wine. As he listened to his sisters answering questions, his mind drifted to think of his cousin, Mercedes, and what he'd heard as he lingered - out of curiosity only - outside the door of the riverside hideout: the keening, the wailing. It'd contrasted in an awful way with the small smile she'd offered him before they'd gone in there, with the way she'd spoken to and disarmed him in the cavern that held Leonhardt's crystal.

He was exhausted - he hadn't slept more than a couple of hours the last handful of nights - but after hearing that crying it'd paled in comparison to how she must be feeling. He didn't know her well enough to feel pity and somehow that was the worst of it. Marga and Ada had been incredibly reluctant to leave Mercedes behind and he hadn't yet had a chance to figure out why they were suddenly so attached to a cousin they hadn't seen since early childhood. He'd always tended to trust their judgment, and it tried to guide his own now. Though he tried to tell himself it was simply to go back to his horse, Hellion, part of him wanted to go back for Mercedes.

"And did you recognize either of the victims?" the undercover Courier, who turned out to be a Garrison soldier and seemed to know Mercedes, asked. The one called Verkonnen.

"Not the one who'd done most of the talking, but," Ada said lowly, "the older man was Damon Pfeiffer. He was a military Instructor, once."

"A friend of our _Papa_ 's," Marga added. "Alejandro Carello, that is."

"We hadn't seen him since _Papa_ fell."

 _Twenty-two years ago,_ Valentin remembered. He'd been two; his earliest memory, faint as it was, was his father's body lying on the dining table, the military officials standing around awkwardly and smelling of horse. Ada and Marga had told him years later how their mother screamed at the officials: _"But he doesn't drink! He doesn't drink!"_ and the only thing in his head when they'd told him was how her grammar was wrong - he was dead. 'He _didn't_ drink.' And their mother had recounted bitterly for weeks thereafter how Mr Pfeiffer had stood there in the doorway to the front foyer, a hand wrapped over his mouth and chin, saying nothing. That'd been the last they'd seen of him; they heard not long later that he retired as an Instructor and pretty much disappeared. Their mother had taken it like a personal affront though they'd never understood why.

 _Even if I'd known I was working with him, what would I have said or done? Would anything have changed?_ he thought.

"...we're waiting on your cousin to arrive, so we can put together more of the pieces," Verkonnen was explaining.

Valentin tuned back in. He remembered her cries beating at the door between them. "Can't you just leave her alone?" he snapped. But he definitely understood why they couldn't, and had a fairly firm impression that she'd be back of her own volition anyhow - if nothing else than because her squadmate was somewhere upstairs being seen to by a doctor. They could hear his cries of pain through the ceiling.

"I'd watch your tongue if I were you," said Verkonnen, tilting his body to look past the twins at him. "You're lucky you're not locked up with the other Couriers for your collaboration, even if you did change your mind last-minute."

Valentin sat back on the bench lining one wall, tilting his head back and flexing his jaw. Only by virtue of his sisters did he hold his tongue. Instead, between his sisters' shoulders he eyed the two pistols sitting on the table between them and Verkonnen. Mercedes had kept her word - they'd gotten one back and if he understood correctly, the third was in some gatehouse of the training ground over in Klorva.

After a moment's pause, Marga turned in her chair to look sadly at him. "How long have you been involved?" She knew, like he and Ada knew, that it wouldn't be long before their mother arrived, and he supposed he should be thankful to get this conversation out of the way before she did. He wouldn't have answered if Verkonnen had been the one to ask, and he wondered if she knew this, too.

"A while. Maybe four years," he admitted.

What he didn't admit was how he'd realized - the night Mercedes and her squad had come to the warehouse on Clock Street - in retrospect that he had been the one to inadvertently buy her time to escape that original night. It'd been his first night - a trial, so to speak - and they'd put him on guard duty round the back. He'd fallen asleep. Forgotten what he was, what he was supposed to do, just long enough for the sight of a bleeding girl naked from the waist down and climbing out of a basement window to give him pause. She'd scampered down the alley and instinct had told him to 'accidentally' push over the pile of empty barrels, tripping her pursuers. He hadn't even known who she was.

He glanced up. Both his sisters and Verkonnen were looking at him. Another stifled groan of pain coming muffled through the ceiling had them shifting in their seats.

"They didn't keep me close, if that's what you're wondering," Valentin added. "I don't think they ever fully trusted me." Not after that night, anyway. "Mostly used me to ferry messages and make kidnaps, since I knew the streets and was a good rider. Got me to steal food sometimes."

"From the restaurant," Adrienne realized.

Valentin looked away, at the closed door. "What happens to me?" he asked, his voice bland.

"Once we gather as much information as possible to make something of a whole picture, in all likelihood it'll be up to my boss."

"And who's that?" Valentin rolled his head on his shoulders to stare boredly at Verkonnen.

Verkonnen's expression didn't change. "Commander Pixis of the Stationary Troops," he said matter-of-factly.

Valentin crossed his legs the other way.

"You won't arrest him, will you?" Marguerite asked, her eyes wide.

"Unfortunately that's not up to me," Verkonnen said, but his voice was softer, more sympathetic. Valentin had witnessed many times how hard it was _not_ to be sympathetic to his sisters and had to confess to hoping it'd serve him well tonight.

Footsteps in the short hall outside, followed by a knock, had Verkonnen rising to his feet. Valentin stayed put, even when the man who entered was obviously of some rank.

"Commander," Verkonnen saluted.

Valentin peered around the bald, older man to the cute female soldier that entered with him, and winked at her. She rolled her eyes and closed the door behind them.

"At ease, Gustav," Commander PIxis said. His sights were already set on Marga and Ada and his smile curled his moustache and narrowed his eyes contentedly. "I trust you haven't been boring these two lovely young ladies to death?"

Although Valentin stood then, bristling, Marga and Ada giggled briefly and gave one another sideways glances.

"So these are the other Carello cubs, then," Pixis said, glancing over the siblings. "Your mother did well to hide you with your stepfather's surname. Although I'm surprised we didn't see you on any military rosters, Valentin," he looked over at him.

"Never joined. Guess I've always had a bad taste in my mouth for it," he replied with the slightest of sneers.

Pixis' eyes sparkled. He assessed him for a moment, then said, "You're a lot like your cousin, you know. And speaking of - has Mercedes arrived yet?" he turned to Verkonnen.

"She was with Brzenska. Should be arriving shortly."

In the pause that followed, the aide that'd come with Pixis joined Verkonnen in one corner of the room to shuffle through some paperwork she'd brought with her on a clipboard. He wondered what it contained.

"You were at our house - when _Papa_ was brought home."

Valentin refocused on Marga, who'd spoken, and then on Pixis to see his reaction. He couldn't remember who had been there, being so young, but his sisters had been four, nearly five, and the Commander was a fairly distinctive individual.

"I was," Pixis nodded sadly. Valentin was surprised he remembered their family - how many other families had he visited when their children or parents or spouses died, no matter the cause? "Your father and your uncle served me well back when I was just a Lieutenant of the Southern Region. I must confess to having stolen some of your father's excellent jokes - he had a talent for making people laugh. They still tell them, you know. Even if the trainees don't know where they came from." He smiled.

Though the sentimentality made Valentin's stomach turn, it did at least put his sisters at ease.

"Commander - Sir?"

Pixis returned his attention to Ada, "Yes, my dear?"

"How...why was Mercedes…"

Valentin noticed she didn't know how to continue, and so supplied for her, "Why was Mercedes ever involved in this?"

The Garrison trio glanced at one another; Pixis shrugged a little and nodded at Verkonnen, and then perched on the table. "I suppose the three of you should know, as Carello children. We still have information coming in, but...it seems as though Carellos have been targeted for some time, as I'm sure you're aware. They wanted to make sure that the line didn't continue. For whatever reason, intentional or not, the brother of your Uncle's wife - Baldev Usbet - must have let it slip that Mercedes existed, and was in training for the military. Everything began after that, to her. The three of you escaped by virtue of your mother's shrewdness following your father's questionable death."

"But they know about us now," Ada said matter-of-factly. "We're no longer just Blanchets - we're Carello-Blanchets."

"So there's still danger?" Marga expounded, looking at her sister.

"Well, now, I wouldn't say 'danger'," Pixis hummed to himself, "the Couriers have been neutralized now, after all."

Valentin eyed him. As much as he simply wanted to get out of this cramped little room and be done with all this, he couldn't help but read the Commander's expression and sense that things weren't as resolved as he was trying to portray. Or did he truly think they _were_ resolved?

"And what happens to Mercedes? She was suspended when we found her and now...now she's killed people," Marga intoned.

When Pixis seemed to take too long to answer, Ada surprised Valentin with the small snarl to her voice as she repeated, "What happens, Commander?"

Valentin joined his sisters in leaning forward, eyes narrowed, lips nearly curling.

"You've brought me into the lion's den, Gustav!" Pixis chuckled, glancing at the younger man. He cleared his throat. "Although I appreciate your interest in your cousin's welfare, unfortunately that's a conversation she and I need to have in private."

Heavy and quick footsteps approached the door; Valentin steeled himself. Without a knock or hesitation, their mother burst into the room. She was still dressed from a long workday and her face was tired, her barrette slipping loose in her hair. Her bright blue eyes quickly fixed themselves on her children to the disregard of all else.

" _Maman_ ," the girls nearly said in unison, their voices apologetic but not as apologetic as usual; Valentin also noticed how they did not rise to embrace her like usual, either - it was up to Jana to sweep behind their chairs and run her large, thin hands through their hair fiercely, affectionately, and press her mouth to their crowns.

"Ah, Mrs Blanchet -" Pixis began.

Jana ignored him, whirling on Valentin. She struck him across the face but, knowing the usual strength of her blows, he found it tempered by something. Her face was furious, her eyes watering, her body trembling - with anger or relief or sadness, he couldn't tell - as she trilled, "Idleness sires misfortune!" She blinked, towering over him. "Didn't I tell you, all these years? Misfortune!" Her frown seemed to take up most of the bottom half of her face.

Valentin idly rubbed the heat of her strike through his stubble, but as always, didn't reply. There was no point. He knew it frustrated her but what was there to say, even if he wanted to ignite a family spat in front of strangers? After one more glare, she turned back around to face the Commander, slapping Valentin's back to get him to sit up straight before placing her hands on her hips.

"Where's _Pére_?" Marga asked, looking out of the still-open door as though expecting their far slower-moving stepfather to be bringing up the rear.

"I told him to sleep. Busiest day of the week at the restaurant tomorrow, after all, and at least _someone_ needs to be rested."

Valentin rolled his eyes.

"What has he done, Commander?" Jana demanded. "Whatever it is, I apologize profusely. He's always been the errant sort."

"It will take us a little more time to figure that out," Pixis said, lacing his hands in his lap. "And as such we'd like to detain him, at least for tonight. I have a feeling, though, that 'whatever it is' will not be serious. Your niece's information will prove useful, in that regard."

"Where is she?" Jana snarled, viciously enough to make Verkonnen and the aide pause their murmured conversation and look their way in worry.

"I'm here." The answer slunk into the room, through their bodies and into their ears. Valentin looked behind his mother to the doorway where Mercedes stood with Brzenska behind her. Although she'd changed clothes and cleaned the blood off her skin, even in the dim light he could tell it was still caught in her hair. It even seemed to have stained her haunted eyes red.

Jana turned on her, her hands dropping from her hips to clench at her sides. "I knew, as soon as you walked in that morning two days ago, that you were a bad omen," she said. "How dare you involve my children in your schemes, your…" her head shook a little, "recklessness."

Mercedes met her eye but did not speak. She pulled her hands behind her back and it was then that he noticed she had on one hip the two invertly-curved knives she'd used.

"While we appreciate your perspective on these matters," Pixis said, "and of course regret that your daughters and son were involved at all, with due respect Mrs Blanchet, we will handle this." In the tense silence that followed, Pixis looked over his shoulder at the aide that'd arrived with him, "Anka, would you be so kind as to escort Mrs Blanchet and her daughters to a carriage to take them home. It is quite late, after all."

"Of course," said Anka, handing off her clipboard to Verkonnen. She held out a hand to indicate the door and looked implicitly at Jana, "If you please." Brzenska and Mercedes stood aside.

His mother, of course, wasn't pleased, and Valentin knew that what few shreds of her respect for authority remained were being pulled taut, but after a few moments she and his sisters left the room, replaced by Mercedes and Brzenska. The latter closed the door, Pixis lowered himself into one of the freed chairs. Mercedes continued to stand.

Valentin glanced at the faces of those who remained; they'd taken on a new gravity that he wasn't sure he understood and while his irritating curiosity wanted to understand, his wish to stay as uninvolved as possible warned him against it. Either way, it was becoming oppressive for him to remain.

"I guess I'll escort myself to a cell, shall I?" he droned.

"You're free to move around, but don't leave this building - believe me, we'll know if you do," Verkonnen said.

Valentin gave him a last sneer for the night and stood. "I could use one night's sleep before I have to go back home." He moved around Mercedes on his way out, but failed to catch her eye - she stared into the middle distance without seeing. "Someone give me my family's guns back when you're all done fiddling with 'em."

When he'd closed the door behind him and taken a grateful breath of fresher, slightly cooler air, Valentin debated briefly whether to linger behind, again, and listen in. But then he figured they were waiting to hear his footsteps echo away before they spoke, and no doubt he'd heard enough about his cousin second-hand for one day.

* * *

 **A Note from the Author:** With many thanks as always to my reviewers! Thank you for sticking by me all this while!


	18. Chapter 18: A Soldier's Resignation

**Chapter 18: A Soldier's Resignation**

Pixis waited until he was certain Valentin was gone and then sighed deeply, leaning back into the chair and losing much of his proper posture. Although he wish he hadn't been woken at such a late hour, he supposed now was as good a time as any to tie up loose ends. The morning would look brighter, when it came, no doubt.

"I do wish you'd sit, Carello," he said, nodding to the chair beside Brzenska. When she obeyed it was a rigid perch on the edge of the seat, not out of any nervousness but of impatience. He had a feeling he didn't have long before it manifested completely and figured that was partially why Brzenska was still here. Although she wasn't in possession of a medal, he could only assume Carello had told her everything. "So. What do we know?" His calloused fingertips scuffed over the few pages Anka had brought with them.

"All known Couriers are currently imprisoned here - twenty-two, to be precise, if you include Valentin Carello and the two dead leaders," Gustav said, reaching over Pixis' shoulder to tap the list. "We've gotten most of their names by now but some are still clinging to some absurd notion of anonymity. Baldev Usbet seems to have been a mere arms supplier, which is supported by his criminal record. He'd laid low for a while and this seems to have been his first gig in a couple of years. Damon Pfeiffer, the true leader, was his old Chief Instructor during military training and is presumed responsible for arranging the covering-up of not only his poor behavior during training, but also his misdemeanors once he got into the Military Police."

"We can assume, then, that Pfeiffer had contacts in Mitras and had been arranging this for some time," Pixis said. "Which in turn means that he - or his contact - must have had some contact with those behind the shifter attacks. I don't suppose this contact happened to be the other leader?"

"Hard to say," Gustav said. "Even in safe settings, members consistently kept themselves masked some kind of way. They were even all built the same way, spoke the same way, almost. No one could name the 'voice' of the Couriers. It'll take longer to identify him."

"And the bodies we found in the warehouse on Clock Street?" Rico asked, folding her arms.

"Suspected Titan-shifters," Mercedes muttered, "or people who might know where more are. And they knew I would investigate, which would mean they could also potentially get more…" she trailed off.

Pixis eyed her. "More what?"

Mercedes' eyes did not meet his own, "More shifter serums," she said to the air between them.

Pixis hid his surprise, but Gustav and Rico were not as successful. "More? You can't be serious," Gustav said.

"From my father."

"And you didn't think to share this with -"

Pixis held up a hand to cut Gustav off. "So not only would they have spirited away the Female Titan, but other shifters - or so they thought - as well as the ability to create more. They wanted to gather an army while the cats were away and our governmental system in flux." He waited for Mercedes nod. "Seems rather ambitious for a ragtag group of twenty relatively untrained, disorganized individuals - unarmed ones, no less."

"I don't think they expected to 'win' or get any of those things. That's because I believe them to be a mere distraction tactic, Sir," Mercedes said.

Her voice was unusually soft, her expression haunted. Pixis waited for elaboration or some kind of strengthening of her resolve, but it did not come.

"Everything, over the last four years… They just...wanted us to look the other way," she whispered. She shook her head and shrugged slowly, "It was all just...theater."

For some reason her words sent a chill up Pixis' spine. He felt like he was looking at someone possessed, some kind of oracle that was merely channeling information from the great beyond. It made his own voice more hesitant as he leaned forward and asked, even though he could not imagine how she would know, "And who is this 'they' you speak of?"

Her gaze finally drifted to his, as though over some great distance. "Someone worse, I imagine," she said, her voice matter-of-fact.

Pixis wasn't sure what he expected, but it wasn't that. The chill he'd experienced a moment before was back, this time mixed with an unusual amount of irritation that bordered on anger. He couldn't pinpoint its source, but it made him frown nonetheless. Was it her, the messenger, that he was displeased with? That potentially they hadn't cut the head off the snake after all? Whoever this 'someone worse' turned out to be? He wasn't sure.

He took out his canteen from his inner jacket pocket, unscrewed the cap, and sipped to try and wash out the sour taste that'd emerged in his mouth. Mercedes had looked away again. He wondered what to do about her now - and he couldn't very well contemplate the harsh inevitable with her sitting right there.

"May I see my squadmate?" her request was more pleading than he'd ever heard her.

"I need your opinion on something, before you go," he said.

She still did not look at him.

"There's the issue of what to do with your cousin Valentin, considering his time with the Couriers. Although it doesn't seem as though his poor judgment was particularly harmful, for him to go without paying some kind of recompense seems irresponsible," Pixis said. "How would you rate his conduct? What would you recommend?"

Mercedes blinked slowly, but she seemed to focus as she breathed in and her face was contemplative rather than distant. After nearly a minute of silence, she said, "Take him into the new military recruits and pardon my squad, and I will willingly resign - save you the numerous pieces of paper required to forge an excuse and the effort it would take to defend me in light of my actions. That seems to be the only decent resolution for any of us."

Pixis let out a long sigh, and heard Gustav shift feet behind him. So she'd make them discuss with her present. Of course she would. One corner of his mouth twitched faintly in a smile.

Rico turned to her and hissed, "'The only decent' -" she cut herself off in exasperation.

"You're the one who said my career was ruined, now," Mercedes said. Her voice was neutral. "I don't see how this is any great loss."

"Any loss of a soldier, no matter the circumstances, is a blow," Pixis said. "And so close to your promotion, too."

"You sound as though you agree with her proposition," Rico unfolded her arms and sat up straight, glaring at him. "This is ludicrous."

 _No, it isn't,_ Pixis thought.

"It's for the best," Mercedes said. She was looking at Pixis again. "Do I have your agreement?"

Pixis regarded her for a long while. Although he couldn't deny being reluctant to lose her - and potentially her squad, if they decided to be young and stubborn - Pixis had to admit that Mercedes was right. He and Erwin had poured a lot of effort over the past few years into her case: defending her, enabling her, fast-tracking her… But now it was difficult to justify it. Incredibly difficult, especially when there's been very little return on that investment.

They had misjudged, and herein lay the means to correct it, bury it. Considering Erwin had not convinced her to go back into the Scouting Legion - as they'd discussed before the latest expedition set off - the only plausible reason was that he did not want her to go. Mercedes was a dead weight at this point that needed to be dropped - maybe. She was too much of a risk - maybe. For now. Maybe they could try again another day, when the shift of power was complete - when the true head of the snake emerged from within its seemingly endless coil.

"It is unfortunate that I admit this, but...I accept your resignation, and your terms," said Pixis. "You squad will be pardoned, and Vallentin Blanchet enlisted as a special case." He held out his hand and she took it in her cold one. He held her hand and unblinking gaze a moment longer than necessary. "But don't stray far."

She wouldn't, he knew. She was merely changing course, and running silent. The best thing he could do for her - for all of them, really - was to cut her loose.

* * *

The door to the room in which they'd been treating Fhalz creaked when Mercedes opened it. Fhalz was sitting up in the bed toying with something in his hand that he hid as soon as she entered. His leg was in a knee-high cast laying on top of the sheet and blanket he was otherwise covered with, and his shirt had been removed so that his ribs could be bandaged. His left hand was into its own, smaller cast, and a couple of fingers had been splinted.

She closed the door behind her; neither of them spoke as she disarmed herself, dropping the knives at the foot of the bed, and came to sit beside him on his right. After a few moments of looking aimlessly into the enviably spick-span room - once a small office, maybe, with a band of windows opposite her that let in a lilac and gold mottling of moon- and streetlight from outside - she turned to nod at his right hand, where it sat balled on his thigh. "Whatcha got?" she said, trying to sound light but only managing to sound empty.

Nonetheless, he seemed to humor her. It took a couple of tries for his hand to uncurl, articulate his torn knuckles enough to pinch something small between thumb and forefinger. It was a simple gold ring, and somehow - if only for a moment - it banished all of the sad, horrifying things that had transpired in the last couple of days. She smiled, and was finally able to look at him.

"Oliver and I were wondering when you were going to do it." Mercedes felt as though she were channeling the thought over a great distance in her head - from another life. "That's why you went to the Interior."

"I thought I'd lost it, so soon after I got it. That leader fucker took it 'for insurance'. One of the coroners brought it by because of my initials beside hers - found it on the body," Fhalz said.

"Soon, then?"

"Maybe. Need to psyche myself up. Plus, don't want to overshadow Ol's birthday. But, you know - never hurts to be prepared." He tucked it into the pocket of his half-cut-away trouser leg.

When it vanished, Mercedes' fragile smile faded. It was yet another piece of evidence that she had made the right choice; how to tell Fhalz in particular about that choice remained difficult. Baena and Oliver wouldn't take it well, but even though Fhalz was more stalwart this choice was incredibly significant to them both. It was a divergence that went against old promises.

"I could have…" she began quietly, "I could have spoiled your chances at a good life. I nearly got you killed; the risk I took was not necessary in the end."

Fhalz blinked his good eye and picked up an ice bag from the nightstand to hold up to his swollen one. "How were you supposed to know that? Don't apologize."

"I should have made you a priority, and got there sooner. I shouldn't have let them take you at all, or agreed to go to that fucking warehouse to begin with," Mercedes mumbled, hunching over. "I was acting selfishly, driven by a personal vendetta in the disguise of a mission."

Fhalz let fall a pause, then said, "It's not selfish to seek what'll start making you better. I'll heal, and I'm glad we went. I'm glad you found retribution." He reached out and stilled the hands she was wringing.

In the silence that followed, Mercedes realized there was no more preamble to be made. "I wanted to tell you before the others: I've decided to resign from the military. You'll take over as squad leader, and pick a fourth - and fifth, whatever you want - member when you're ready. Effective immediately."

Fhalz's grip loosened. She couldn't look at him. At length he seemed to gather himself, and asked, "Are you doing this because you feel guilty?"

"It's not all of it, but it's part of it."

"This...this isn't what we promised one another," he said, his voice cracking a little. His grip tightened again, almost so much that it hurt.

Mercedes closed her eyes - there it was; what she'd dreaded - the memory of the snow over the second purge of Western Division recruits, their hands sharing the warmth of a single tin mug of coffee as they'd watched the wagons snake away as though into clouds, the sudden words of 'we won't be sent home' so clear and heavy to her that she was no longer sure who'd said them.

"We promised one another we'd get to the Elite, together, and then...and then higher. We were going to be the last generation of Commanders - we were going to lead the last defense and see the end of the Titans' reign. Don't you remember? We weren't -"

"Going to be sent home," she finished for him, moistening her lips and opening her eyes, blinking slowly. "I'm sorry I can't keep my promise, Fhalz. I'm not worthy of that vision anymore; I've been set on a dark path - a different one than you and I had in mind - and I don't have a choice about it."

"But what will you do?"

"Go it alone."

"'Cee what does that even mean? I thought you'd get some rest if nothing else - I thought all the crap that'd been bothering you was starting to go away? Things were meant to get better, not worse."

The anger beginning to boil his voice made her entire body sting. "Please, Fhalz. I need you to trust me. Things aren't over and I have to see them through alone." She forced herself to look at him and gripped his hand back.

He was pouting at her, his good eye wet and narrowed at her. "But we promised."

Mercedes frowned back. She didn't know what else to say.

Fhalz stared at her, unblinking, for a moment more. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and breathed deeply a few times. "You're doing this because we can't go with you." He nodded to himself. "I guess we have to let you go. I trust you. Promises seem a bit empty right now, but - promise me whatever you're doing, you'll be careful?"

As Mercedes opened her mouth to speak, there was a knock on the door and it opened. She nodded instead as she held his gaze. They tried to smile at one another.

"Oh thank fuck!" Baena's voice. "Thank fuck, oh god, oh sweet heaven…" Mercedes looked over her shoulder as Baena came creeping their way, her arms held out, to drape herself over them. Oliver closed the door behind him. "We feared the worst when they actually let us out to come here. I don't even want to know what happened - that you're both alive is good enough for me."

"We're all right," Fhalz said, his voice tired. He let go of Mercedes' hand and passed it through Baena's hair. "It's just been a long night. Or two."

Baena was nodding as she sobbed a little. "Yeah. Yeah it has. How about...how about we all just sleep, huh? Let's just...let's just sleep. We need it. Where it's safe. Where nothing can hurt us and we're together. That's all we need, right?"

At her climbing onto the bed, Fhalz said, "Baena we can't all fit on the bed."

She sat up, the white of the gauze over her eye gleaming. "I know! We'll camp on the floor. Ol', help me move his mattress down."

Out of habit more than anything else, at Baena's 'help me' Mercedes automatically got up to do the work for her; she and Oliver lifted the mattress, Fhalz and all, to place it on the floor, while Baena grabbed anything in the room remotely soft - spare linens, the cushion on the chair, and threw them down too. Oliver tugged down the mattress of the second bed and aligned it with the other.

As pointlessly rearranged sheets, Mercedes realized she was crying a little. Without another word the four of them crept into their makeshift nest, pulling blankets with them. Baena hung on to Fhalz, facing him, while Oliver and Mercedes - as always - formed the protective outer layer by curling against their backs. She felt her sleeve dampen under her eye, and hoped they couldn't see how it wicked away her tears.

Eventually their shared warmth coaxed them into sleep, their grip relaxing only a little as they cradled one another.


	19. Chapter 19: Songs

**Chapter 19: Songs**

 _(Two days later)_

Mercedes finished tying her hair up with an old, large handkerchief to help deep-condition her curls. The plum and honey scent filled Julia's tiny bathroom and she pushed open the shutters over the window to help some of the steam escape into the afternoon sunshine. She then sat back in the old, familiar, deep soaking tub and let herself relax, inch by inch, in the hot water.

The voices of her squad - no, her _former_ squad - drifted up to her through the window from where they lazed outside, talking to Julia. Every so often Mrs Kirstein's voice would join in too as she ferried refreshments out to them. They'd helped Mercedes move back home and naturally had insisted on staying for dinner for the 'inconvenience'. Mercedes let herself get lost in their laughter, trying not to associate it with any kind of loss. When she closed her eyes, however, she couldn't help it.

By virtue of Fhalz, no doubt, they'd taken it well. Mercedes had been surprised by how Baena seemed the most supportive, frequently commenting on Mercedes' opportunity to have a much-needed break and even joking that if she'd wanted a vacation, she only had to ask. The three of them seemed to be working under the assumption that Mercedes was gone only temporarily, and she hadn't the heart to tell them that she didn't intend to return and if she did, it would take something monumental. And she certainly didn't tell them that rather than a foregoing of it, that it was duty precisely that was driving her to remove herself as much as possible. Maybe they knew.

 _I'll lie low; only three days until Oliver's birthday. Then I'll need to start making my moves,_ she thought. The back of her head rested on the rim of the tub.

Mercedes fell asleep to Baena singing:

"… _and we'll be dancin', dancin'  
_ _our way through the streets  
_ _when the sunshine blooms  
_ _and the lovers meet –_

 _don't tell me bad omens,  
_ _don't tell me goodbye;  
_ _please just dance with me  
_ _while there's still time!"_

 _She stood from her crouch in Marco's coal-like palm; the wind was wild and hot around them as he turned, and together they surveyed the wasteland they'd both created and tempered - a vast field of fire, ash, steam, and darkness. It was littered with corpses and the bones of ruined buildings. She could see everything - she could see the horizon and it was hell._

 _Marco - the Burning Titan - had crouched then, and she had knelt in his palm as his fingertips closed around her in a protective cage. Her limbs had scraped at his flaking, decaying body as his hand turned under her, around her, to open and let her sink to the charred ground. That hand shielded her the same way it'd shielded her the first time he'd transformed that night in the jail cell, only this time the flames rustled like a thousand birds' wings as his body decayed and guttered out. Slowly the air cooled and the hand over her became rigid. She heard the body cracking, disintegrating, like chalk crumbling. Voices were shouting. It was over._

 _Mercedes beat against the hand, shattering it, and fought her way through the cloud she'd created. She could hear Jean calling for her, for them both. She could just about see Marco peeling himself out of the nape of the huge charcoal figure, skittering down its back to land in a pile of paling ash - on the road, she'd promised him she'd let him leave without a word to anyone, to escape in the chaos once the danger was over - his duty done. But now that it came down to it, she didn't want him to go. She pushed and shoved her way through the bone-dry shards of his Titan body that were tumbling to the ground, toward him._

 _He didn't say anything when she reached him. Only smiled sadly, made her eyes close when he wiped away the ash caught there on her lashes. He pressed his dry mouth to hers and kissed her, and when her eyes opened he had let her go and was turning, darting back into the dust. She let him go, let him be carried away by the wind as though he was now merely a ghost, with no more substance than the ash._

 _Only moments later Jean came crashing through the wreck beside her and sheathed his blades. "Where's Marco?" he asked, coughing. The wind was turning the more solid chunks of the Titan body into drifts like dirty snow and Jean swung a hand through them as though Marco were buried._

" _I don't know," she said. "He must have run."_

" _Marco," Jean said, blinking rapidly and looking around him. Mercedes could hear the hurt in his voice, the desperation. She followed him slowly, limping, as he searched the area. A few others by now were gathering either by virtue of gear or horses but she didn't care to identify them - her gaze was too fixed on the way Jean tore through everything fragile._

 _Finally she couldn't stand it anymore and grabbed him, holding him back from what was a fruitless search. "No," she said. "Stop. Stop looking."_

" _What? Why?" he hissed and tried to squirm out of her grip._

" _Jean? 'Cee?" Armin called._

 _Mercedes came around to the front of him, rising as best she could on her toes, holding him tight. She pressed her face close to his ear, suppressing a silent sob as she whispered, "I promised to let him go. He didn't...he didn't want anyone to know..."_

 _Jean didn't respond immediately. She felt his arms rise, as though to embrace her, but he didn't. His chest began to rise and fall quicker and quicker; he shook. "Why...why would you do that?" he managed. "You didn't - you didn't ask anyone. You just decided, on behalf of all of us. How could you?" His voice was stronger now and he pushed her away and took a couple of steps back. His face was contorted in anger. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"_

 _A cooler wind tore between them, clearing away some of the ash. In her periphery she could see others gathering, Armin trying to speak again to get her or Jean's attention._

" _Jean, what -" she tried._

" _Is your moral compass really so superior that you've just stopped consulting anyone?" he shouted._

" _No!" she shook her head adamantly but before she even stopped, she was doubting herself._

" _Then what about that mess with your father, huh? We could have learned so much from him - we could have made so much more progress and so many lives wouldn't have been lost in vain - and you killed him." While one fist clenched, his other arm swung wide. "You just took it upon yourself to pass judgment, like it wouldn't have any consequences to anyone but you - I used to think you were better than this. I thought I could trust you - that you'd talk to me, consult me, confide in me. Now I don't know what to think. This...this is just another betrayal. I don't even know who you are anymore."_

 _Mercedes felt her heart break; she always thought that saying was cliche, exaggerated, but it was true. She felt its four chambers tear apart and she felt it ache to a stop. Her brow furrowed and tears gathered in her eyes. They stared at one another. Jean's face remained angry._

 _At length, the only thing she felt capable of saying crept out of her parted lips: "'If it's yours, it's mine,'" she quoted him. It was a shameless plea: that he remember how they'd held one another in the ranch, promised to face the world together if needs be - a plea that he remember how they'd admitted they loved one another, that he not desert her. Not now. She felt tears on her face._

 _Jean's mouth remained firmly shut, his frown set. And then he'd turned and walked away without saying anything to her. That was the last time she saw him._

 _More people. More voices. Mercedes remained rooted to the spot and staring at his retreating back, even after he'd been lost to sight, bargaining with forces she didn't understand for just one more day - no, one more hour, one more minute - to be with him. But she had nothing to barter with - not anymore. She was empty. People asking her who the Burning Titan was. People who didn't know better, who hadn't heard, shouting at her, angry. She'd stood there with the pieces of her heart ground into the ash at her feet, wishing she was dead. She told them nothing._

* * *

 _(The next day)_

Mercedes angled herself backward a little where she stood in the crook of the old plum tree at the front of the house, where she'd always stood every year come harvest-time, to toss down the two plums she'd grabbed to Fhalz, who was sitting on a short stool below. He caught first one, then the other, in his good hand and placed them in the basket between his legs. Through the open windows upstairs they could hear Baena singing as she helped Mrs Kirstein change bedlinens; from around the back of the house came the clunks of Oliver repairing the fence Bashka had broken through yet again. Despite not being together, the four of them sang - or in Fhalz's case, hummed - along with one another.

 _"'Oh bring the sinner to church, the sinner to church,  
_ _oh bring him low, raise him up, bring him low, raise him up -  
_ _a good day's work can't hurt you none, hurt you none,'  
_ _said my mother and she did nod._

 _"'What do I do on this fine good day?'  
_ _I asked my neighbor as they passed by.  
_ _With a wink and a smile they did say:_

 _"'Oh bring the scythe to the wheat, scythe to the wheat,  
_ _oh bring it low, raise it up, bring it low, raise it up -  
_ _a good day's work can't hurt you none, hurt you none,'  
_ _said my neighbor and they did nod."_

Mercedes reached out and plucked the other ripe fruit she'd been eyeing, and tossed it downward. As she turned to reorient herself to another part of the tree, she spotted a splash of caramel between the boughs and the slow clop of hooves distracted her from the song.

"Oh it's you," said Fhalz with a slight sneer. Baena and Oliver's singing carried on without them.

Intrigued, Mercedes carefully climbed out of the tree. She shook stray leaves out of her hair and dusted flakes of bark off her arms and knees before rounding the tree to get back to the cobbles. Valentin rode up to them and passed a critical gaze over the house and adjoining workshop. It was jarring, at first, to see him cleanshaven and unarmed, dressed in a casual red sleeveless shirt over brown pants.

"Damn, the two of you couldn't be more color-coordinated if you tried," Fhalz muttered to her.

She ignored him. "What brings you here?" Mercedes said and put her hands on her hips.

Valentin dismounted. "Figured I'd come thank you in person for the rude wake-up call yesterday. Apparently it was your idea that they take me into the military with all the other brats?" He tied up his horse to a fence post and much like it, tossed his head to get hair out of his eye.

"That was my idea, yeah," Mercedes agreed. "Figured you needed keeping out of trouble."

"And you resign, because you don't?"

"Hey, watch it," Fhalz said.

"So you came here to pick a fight, I see."

Valentin looked at the reins in his hands for a moment, then let them fall. Although it seemed difficult for him, he said, "No. Actually I came to give you something."

Mercedes squinted at him as he walked closer. "Really."

Valentin fished something out of his pocket and held it out to her - a large gold signet ring that, on closer inspection, was embossed with a laurel wreath around the initials 'B Z'. She was reminded of the wreath of thorns on the blank medal Pixis had given her, and turned the ring over to inspect its underside. She peered closer and could just about make out more Latin - ' _Sub arbore, ascia_ '.

Her eyes flicked up to meet Valentin's.

"I stole it, all right? Off that dead guy - the real leader. The Pfeiffer guy had one too. I figured…" he looked away, shrugging. "It might help identify him or something."

Fhalz was shaking his head at her when Mercedes turned to hand it to him. He looked unusually defeated.

"What?" she asked, jerking the ring in his direction.

Reluctantly he took it, and just as reluctantly explained, "I didn't want to add to your worry. It matches one I found by the Female Titan's crystal. I turned it in to the guard at the time."

Mercedes frowned. She'd discuss with him why he'd been there later. "Tall, nervous brown-haired guy?"

"No, some short girl. Real giggly in a creepy kind of way. Wavy short, light hair." Fhalz peered at the underside of the ring. "Same language as - well, that thing you showed me."

"So, any good?" Valentin asked. When she looked at him his hands were on his hips and Mercedes crossed her arms instead as a result.

"Maybe. Thank you." Fhalz handed the ring back to her and she peered at it again. Although the Latin in of itself was interesting, it was the laurel wreath that was catching her attention. She tried to work out where she'd seen it before.

"Oh, hello male version of 'Cee." The three of them looked over at Baena's voice floating out from the front doorway. She had a quizzical expression on her face as she looked between the cousins. "You...sure you're not siblings? You two have some seriously strong genes."

"Does that win me extra points?"

Mercedes glared at Valentin, whose chin had raised and whose face had taken on a cocky smirk. "Don't bother. She's out of your league," she said.

Mercedes was about to answer Baena when the taller girl was gently but insistently pushed aside. Julia hovered on the doorstep for a moment, staring intently at Valentin. Her mouth curved downward, opening to speak but words not coming out. With difficulty she stepped down and limped over and it was then that Mercedes could see how her eyes watered.

"You...you look just like your father," she managed, her voice cracking. Her crooked hands pulled at his arms to bring him lower and closer into a tight embrace. "Valentin," she gasped into his shoulder; the name was a deeper intonation and then a hiss, like the pouring of gunpowder into a cartridge, on her tongue.


	20. Chapter 20: The Music Of Bones

**Chapter 20: The Music of Bones**

Sabine was led away, and Mercedes reflected how strange it felt to be making a semi-official appearance without her uniform. In its place, to look mildly presentable she had donned her best black trousers and matched it with a collared, sleeveless tunic that hung to her calves and buttoned up the front. The buttons matched the handle of the knife sheathed along her waistband at the small of her back, hidden. She smoothed her clothes free of creases as she took a steadying breath in front of the palace.

"You look like you're going to a funeral."

Mercedes' expression didn't change as she turned around. By the time the sun set it may be true, after all. "That's the second time you've said that," she told Valentin. He remained on horseback and waved away the offer from the stablehand to take his reins. "You didn't have to escort me," she added.

He shrugged. "I'll wait." He eyed the gate with undisguised animosity and worry.

She shrugged, too. "Suit yourself."

Mercedes walked to the gate and presented Pixis' medal to the guards there. She'd been surprised - but now grateful - that for some reason Pixis had refused when she had offered to give it back to him. It gave her a much-needed shred of confidence in what she was doing here.

"May we ask the reason for your visit, Warden?"

Mercedes guessed that not only did Historia have something to do with the lack of 'Hollow' in front of 'Warden', but that word of her resignation had not yet reached everyone. "I've come for an audience with the Commander-in-Chief. He should be expecting me."

The port-cochere-like gatehouse opened immediately into cloistered gardens with a fountain in the middle; a lone gardener was doing her best to water the already-wilted plants and smiled hesitantly at her. While another guard darted off down one of the cloisters to inform whomever he needed to inform, Mercedes wandered closer to the fountain. The evening sun cut harsh shadows over the flagstones. She was beginning to feel the burn of the ring in her pocket when familiar voices had her looking right.

Historia emerged from an open hall with a trio of aides, talking excitedly. They were turning to walk through the cloisters when Historia spotted her. "'Cee! I didn't know you'd be stopping by! How wonderful." The aides hovered in the shadows.

Although in truth she hadn't known the girl that well, Mercedes smiled nonetheless. She stood to attention despite herself and managed a half-bow as Historia approached her. "Your Highness," she greeted. "Don't let me stop you - you seem to be on a mission," she nodded at her riding gear.

Historia waved a hand. "It's fine, really. I was about to visit the orphanage. I'm glad I saw you, in fact," she smiled. "I was going to write…"

"Oh?"

"I'm in the market for a physician for the orphanage, you see. I tried to convince Wil Ives - you remember him from the Scouting Legion, don't you? - but he wasn't having any of it. He and Ronan are too attached, I think. Anyhow - will you think about it?"

The suggestion caught Mercedes off-guard and she gave a huff of nervous laughter, "Your Highness I was just a field medic and nowhere near Ives' caliber, for that matter. I wouldn't know what to do with children. I appreciate you thinking of me, though."

Historia put her hands on her hips. "Shit, why is it so difficult to find a doctor in need of their own practice nowadays! I suppose I'll think of something."

Mercedes wanted to comment that most of them were likely dead at this point, but resisted. She smiled again. "I'm sure you'll find someone."

"Warden?" Mercedes turned to look behind her, and across the small courtyard saw the guard who'd gone away earlier gesturing at an open door to another hall. "The Commander-in-Chief will see you."

She nodded at him and turned back to Historia, finding her disguising her curious look over her shoulder. When she met Mercedes' eyes she gave a smaller, more genuine smile, "The title suits you," she said. Something unusual clouded Historia's face for a brief moment as she gazed again at the open door behind Mercedes. Then it was gone. "We'll see each other soon, I hope!"

Mercedes held her gaze for a moment, detecting the disguised request behind the platitude. "Of course," she said, and this seemed to satisfy the Queen.

"Your Majesty," one of the aides was calling. "The hawks have arrived."

Mercedes bowed to her and the two of them parted.

The guard led her into the palace proper, the western wing that contained the throne room and who knew what else. Her natural curiosity to explore the building, illuminate her mental map of it in much the same way Fhalz did wherever he went, was swamped by a cold sweat as they went farther down the cool, checkerboard-tiled hall. Their footsteps echoed. The guard took them off the gilded hall up a set of red-carpeted stairs and the evening sunlight cut across their backs and glimmered in the chandelier crystals from the hundred-paned windows. She began to detect the faint aroma of food, growing stronger. At last they stopped outside a decoratively-plastered door and the guard opened it for her, smiling innocently. She thanked him and ducked into the room. The _clack_ of it closing behind her gave her an odd sort of relief, despite what it contained. They were alone.

Commander-in-Chief Darius Zackly - though how he managed to retain his title following his indictment was a mystery to her - sat in the nook of the generous bay window of the study at a small table. A meal cart was off to one side in the shadows and the meal itself, whatever it was, gave off steam that danced into the sunlight. She was reminded of that evening nearly a week ago when she'd found Pixis in much the same manner, when all of this had started. Two places had been set - the one across from him empty. Only this time, Zackly was not yet eating - rather, sitting back rather expectantly in his chair - and he did not clear away the offending plate and utensils. He was staring at her, a small smile on his face.

Mercedes took slow steps farther into the room, her steps muffled by the rug underfoot. Her peripheral vision noted no other exits than the door she'd entered through and the window, that she could see at any rate. Deep shadows obscured most of the room, but rather than make her paranoid they helped her hone in on her target, her purpose. Every sense felt on edge, alive, even as her memory sung with the image of the two places set in the Special Collections Room, one empty, and Julia's story of how the same had happened to her uncles before they wound up dead. He'd done this deliberately, she knew, to intimidate her. She didn't care. She didn't care at this point if it would end up being more than intimidation. It was her duty to be here.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" Zackly said, drawing out each word in a somewhat mocking fashion.

She came to stand behind the second chair; Zackly gestured to it and she sat. The two of them regarded one another for a long moment, sizing the other up, before Mercedes reached into her pocket. "I came to return something of yours," she said, and placed the signet ring on the empty pewter plate. She watched with satisfaction as Zackly's eyes went to it and sparkled a little with recognition. "Family, I take it? Not that many surnames beginning with 'Z' around, particularly with the heraldry of a laurel wreath. Maybe you never should have given me the seal that let me in."

After the briefest of moments Zackly looked up at her and replied, "I'm not in the habit of taking back or regretting invitations. Evidently neither is Pixis, if you're here now. And I do so like letting you in." He placed one of two napkins into his lap.

Mercedes didn't respond.

Zackly chuckled to himself, leaned forward and tore his bread roll in half, buttering both sides. She could see now that the rest of his dinner consisted of steamed carrots in their own little bowl and, obscurely, two tiny birds roasted whole, heads and all, until their skin was a crispy, herbed golden-brown, sitting on an absurdly decorative bed of lettuce.

Zackly took up his fork and stabbed into a carrot. "I heard you resigned - a real free agent now, eh? One could almost say it looks like you're trying to get rid of as much liability as possible." The carrot disappeared into his mouth. He regarded her with interest, even though she remained silent.

Mercedes allowed herself to lean back slowly in the chair, bracing her arms on it like a throne. Unblinking, she watched him too. She waited. She would wait as long as it took. She would endure anything he tried to say to her, try to get her to think or do, because as much as he likely knew about her she knew one key detail about him - as he'd said so himself, he couldn't resist letting her in. So she would lie in wait until he did.

After a couple more carrots and seeing no response from her to his liking, Zackly's demeanor changed a little. The good humor - mocking as it was - disappeared and the tone of his voice deepened with pretenses thrust aside. "Did you really think _you_ would be the reason I'd be kept locked away forever? No one has that kind of power over me - not Dawk, not Pixis, not Smith, not even the Queen. Surely a sense of self-importance hasn't corrupted you, little cat. That's why I liked you to begin with - there's more to ruin, with people like you." He took a sip of wine, must have noticed the slight compulsive twitch of her hands or the way her eyes strayed to his carving knife. He caught her glance and laughed darkly, knowingly.

Inside, however, Mercedes was smiling darkly back at him.

"By all means, if you feel you can take me, go ahead," he said, and gestured around them at the room, "we're alone. Just be conscious that I could take you, too, and show you the real reason I'm left to my own devices."

 _He probably knows I'm armed some kind of way,_ she thought.

As if to emphasize his point, Zackly unfolded his second napkin, leaned forward over his plate, and to her surprise draped the white cloth completely over his head until she could no longer see him or the birds. She saw him breathe in deeply a couple of times to sample the aroma, saw him move one hand under the cloth, and heard the scrape of a wing or ribcage on the plate. It was followed by several loud crunches, every so often interrupted by the patter of tiny bones being spat back on the plate.

Mercedes felt her stomach turn a little. She distracted it with recounting the kind of rumors that had floated around regarding Zackly's skillset - something so at odds with the rather unimpressive figure he cut next to those of his immediate subordinates, the other Commanders, but apparently so significant that not only did they raise him to his current station but kept him there. No one dared go against him but few divulged why. Morbid curiosity wanted her to find out for herself but she knew she couldn't - not yet.

A few more crunches, a few more bones. Then Zackly drew back the cloying, heavy veil he'd cast over himself and placed it to one side, picking up his wine again. He finished chewing, sipped, said, "I thought not. See, you are smart." He took a bite of bread.

Mercedes looked at the pile of bones on his plate as though she and Zackly might soon divine both their fates from them. But there weren't enough bones yet. Not enough had been consumed. She looked back up at him, focusing on keeping her expression unreadable.

He seemed to find this interesting, because his goblet hovered in front of his face and his brow had drawn down slightly. He allowed himself the slightest of intrigued smiles and put down the wine, leaning forward, tilting his head as though he'd caught sight of something new. She could see the predatory gleam of his teeth as he contemplated what to say to her next.

"You're quite the piece of work, aren't you. Maybe that's the reason Smith wanted you to stay here instead of joining the Shiganshina Expedition. I can't imagine why else."

Mercedes refused to react to the prod, to the new information. _You're not the only predator._ Her head lowered slightly, but still she stared at him just as intently as he stared at her. Still she waited.

Zackly sat back in his chair, took another sip of wine. When he began again his voice was as matter-of-fact as if he'd been discussing the weather.

"You were never meant to make it out of 366 Clock Street that night, you know; not as whole as you managed to remain, at any rate. I had such plans – you should have seen them – a real work of art," he held his goblet to the sun as though in salute, "far more sophisticated than anything I did to your uncles. You were going to be expensive, what with all that gold. I was going to gild your eyes and send them to your grandmother as keepsakes, to remind her that I never stopped watching. Your blindness would have halted your military career, the rape would have both humiliated your family _and_ ensured you were too broken to bear children; your father would have been as good as dead and the Carello line would have ended. And now I learn that you have cousins… I'll have to double my efforts, it seems."

Mercedes ignored the pit opening up in her stomach as best she could. Her hands gripped the arms of the chair. She tried not to have doubts. Tried to assure herself that she'd done right in coming here, that she was going to come out on top.

"Don't get me wrong. You've been very useful and for the time being I have no intention of harming you or your family, provided you _remain_ useful. You'll be surprised to learn that I actually had very little to do with the plot to kidnap Miss Leonhardt. All I did was idly mention the crack in her crystal, which any fool could have seen on their own. It's certainly not my fault that Pixis was taken in by the ruse. That whole business was the sloppy work of amateurs thinking they could fall into good graces. But this does highlight how turbulent our times have become, wouldn't you agree?"

"I wouldn't know. I've never studied theater," Mercedes said, allowing the slight sneer to her voice. It made her feel better - more settled, more in control. It beat back the images he was trying to pull out of her memories.

Zackly took up his fork and finished off his carrots. "Oh come now. Don't pretend that you haven't entered the political arena, though I will confess you did not do so of your own volition. You were born into predisposition and then Shadis and Carlstedt-Gaus began moving you around, trying to keep you out of sight, and then of course Smith stumbled upon you and struck a deal with Pixis and then everyone was moving you around, weren't they?" He put down his fork, wiped his mouth with the napkin in his lap. "You even began to go along with it willingly. This isn't even touching upon your role in the appearance of the Burning Titan. It must have been an interesting time in that head of yours, particularly after I got in there and poked around. And now, you have no choice but to keep playing. You've seen too much and acquired too much collateral and you know it. Resigning from the military altogether...it's too late for that. Nothing can help you now."

Mercedes' head rose as she took in his words, her eyes narrowing. The shadows on and around them were long, the sunset a fierce, fleshy red.

He grinned at her. "And so _young_ …so… _angry_." He shook his head. "How different your life could have been. But wait – it's not anger, exactly, is it? It's something far worse. I needn't name it. We both know what it is – you and I are very alike, you know."

Zackly disappeared back under his second napkin to devour the other bird. Her knife felt heavy at her back; she could strike him down here and now - surely he'd only been bluffing, before, when he said he could take her down? He was old, after all. But somehow, she knew that was what he wanted her to try, and what he'd meant in a way when he'd commented that they were alike. Were they? Everyone else seemed so insistent that she was a good person, but was she really? Surely the Commanders wouldn't use her like they had if she was truly good, because good people - truly good people - were not capable of the things their world needed them to be able to do. And he was right - it wasn't anger in her anymore. It was too cold for that. It wasn't even hate, precisely, though as she watched him she did feel it curdle in her belly.

 _The both of us devote ourselves to duty; that's what it is. It's made us into double-edged swords. But our motivations are different - he is driven by hate, and I'm driven by love. We are not the same._

The music of bones drew her attention back to Zackly. He re-emerged in the dim light, plucking a last tiny bone from his tongue and brushing it off on the plate. He wiped his mouth with his napkin, finished his wine.

 _We are not the same._

"So what's next for you – that's the real question, isn't it?" He drawled, "What else will you be asked to do, who else will grow to hate you or come to harm because of you, how long will you manage to survive when there are few here to protect you, what other names will you acquire? I must confess to being very interested. Aren't you? Doesn't it keep you awake at night?" he tilted his head.

 _We are not the same._

Zackly stood, tossing his napkins over the shattered carcasses on his plate. He walked over to her slowly; she kept still, though the muscles in her right arm burned in readiness to draw her knife.

Somehow, Zackly seemed to detect this urge. He paused, and then leaned over, drawing her hair away from her ear. Oddly, his voice and grew soft, contemplative, almost grandfatherly, as he said, "While I may know a lot about how our story ends, your role in it is less clear to me. But I do know the game you're playing by being here and I _am_ clear on this: if you tell anyone about our conversation here today – your squad, your friends, your family, _any_ of your lovers – your Queen is dead and everything you hold dear wiped out, and I will be much more thorough about it than I was with your grandmother. You have not seen what I am capable of."

The pit opened in her stomach again and the hate fell into it. Everything fell into it and it simultaneously brought her clarity and muddied the waters even more. _We are not the same - we are not the same,_ she repeated to herself. She felt her hair fall back into place and the Commander-in-Chief take a step back.

Mercedes gathered her wits and stood, too. She looked him square in the eye, the corners of her mouth twitching upward in what wasn't quite a smile, not quite a vindictive grin, as she reached behind her. The scrape of metal on metal, faintly. She implicitly held up the ring between them, enjoyed the slight narrowing of his eyes as she pocketed it once more.

He seemed to gather himself quickly too, and said with a laugh, "I see you understand. Good. How promising you are." A cruel smile.

Without challenge, she stepped past him on her way to the door.

"Maybe next time we meet, Warden, you'll do some talking rather than that inane babbling you did that night."

"I couldn't possibly hope to divulge as much as you, Sir, but we'll have to see, won't we?" Mercedes called back, and let herself out.

She heard him laughing, like he'd swallowed some of the bones and they were rattling around in his empty chest, dissonant, ferociously insistent on their lack of melody.

* * *

 **A Note from the Author:** For those not familiar with the practice, Zackly is eating ortolans, small birds that are commonly caught alive and force-fed before being roasted and consumed whole. The placing of the napkin over the head has been speculated to serve several purposes, including to better appreciate the aromas, disguise fellow guests from seeing the act of spitting out the bones, and to hide 'such a decadent and shameful act from the eyes of God'.

That aside - thank you so much for joining me on this ride! We're done! I sincerely hope you enjoyed. Stay tuned for the next installment!


	21. SEQUEL

**Sequel Announcement!**

I am happy to announce that the sequel to Hidden Lions – **Beyond the Gardens of Babylon** \- is now up! Check it out – I'd love to know what you think.

 _The Scouting Legion never returned from sealing the breach at Shiganshina. Convinced the worst could not have happened, the Queen pleas that Mercedes travel in the tentative company of the Female Titan to Wall Maria; the clues they find lead them in search of their fellow soldiers, and into a world with far different horrors than those they leave behind._


End file.
